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^ CHILD AT HOME; 



OR 



THE PRINCIPLES OF FILIAL DUTY 



FAMILIARLY ILLUSTRATED, 



BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT, 

AUTHOR OP { THE MOTHER AT HOME.' 



PUBLISHED BY THE 

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 

150 NASSAU- STREET, NEW-YORK. 



D. Farahaw, Printer. 



tered according to act of Congress, in the year 1838, 
by Crocker ft Brewoteh, id the Clerk's Office of the District 
Court of Massachusetts. 

Riuht of publishing transferred to Americriu Tract Society. 



PREFACE. 



This book is intended for the children of 
those families to which The Mother at Home 
has gone. It is prepared with the hope that 
it may exert an influence upon the minds of 
the children, in exciting gratitude for their 
parents' love, and in forming characters which 
shall ensure future usefulness and happiness. 

The book is intended, not for entertain- 
ment, but for solid instruction. I have en- 
deavored, however, to present instruction in 
an attractive form, but with what success, the 
result alone can tell. The object of the book 
will not be accomplished by a careless perusal. 
It should be read by the child, in the presence 
of the parent, that the parent may seize upon 
the incidents and remarks introduced, and 
thus deepen the impression. 



4 PRKFACE. 

Though the book is particularly intended 
for children, or rather for young persons, it is 
hoped that it will aid parents in their efforts 
for moral and religious instruction. 

It goes from the author with the most ear- 
nest prayer, that it may save some parents 
from blighted hopes, and that it may allure 
many children to gratitude, and obedience, 
and heaven. 

John S. C. Abbott 

Worcester December, 1833L 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

Responsibility. — The Police Court. The widow and her 
daughter. Effect of a child's conduct upon the happiness 
of its parents. The young sailor. The condemned pi- 
rate visited by his parents. Consequences of disobedi- 
ence. A mother's grave. The sick child 7 

CHAPTER II. 

Deception. — George Washington and his hatchet. — Conse- 
quences of deception. Temptations to deceive. Story 
of the child sent on an errand. Detection. Anecdote. 
The dying child. Peace of a dying hour disturbed by 
falsehood previously uttered. Various ways of deceiv- 
ing. Thoughts on death. Disclosures of the judgment 
day. 28 

CHAPTER III. 

Obedience. — Firmness requisite in doing duty. The irre- 
solute boy. The girl and the green apples. Tempta- 
tions. Evening party. Important consequences result- 
ing from slight disobedience. The state prison. His- 
tory of a young convict. Ingratitude of disobedience. 
The soldier's widow and her son. Story of Casabianca. 
Cheerful obedience. Illustration. Parental kindness. 46 

CHAPTER IV. 

Obedience, continued. — The moonlight game. Reasons 

why good parents will not allow their children to play in 

the streets in the evening. The evening walk. The 

terrified girl. Instance of filial affection. Anecdote. 

1* 



Q CONTENTS. 

Strength of a mother's love. The child's entire depen- 
dence. A child rescued from danger. Child lost in the 
prairie. ...... 71 

CHAPTER V. 

Riuaious Truth. — Human character. The Northern Voy- 
agers. Imaginary scene in a court of justice. Love of 
God. Scene from Shakspeare. Efforts to save us. Th«- 
protection of angels. The evening party. The dissoluti- 
on. A child lost in the woods. The sufferings of the 
Savior. The Holy Spirit. ... 94 

CHAPTER VI. 

Piety. — Penitence. Charles Bullard. His good character 
in school. In college. The pious boy. The orchard. 
The fishing-rod. The forgiving spirit. How children 
may do good. The English clergyman and the child 
who gave himself to the Savior. The happy sick boy. 
The Christian child in heaven. Uncertainty of life. 
The loaded gun. The boy in the stage-coach. . Hi) 

CHAPTER VII. 

Traits of Character. — We cannot be happy without 
friends. Why scholars are unpopular in school. The 
way to gain friends. The warm fire. Playing baL. 
Recipe for children who would be loved. A bad temper. 
Amiable disposition to be cultivated. The angry man. 
Humility. The vain young lady. Vanity always ridi- 
culous. The affected school girl. The unaffected school- 
girl. Story of the proud girl. Moral courage. The 
duellist. The three school-boys. George persuaded to 
throw the snow-ball. What would have been real moral 
courage. The boy leaving home. His mother's provi- 
sions for his comfort. The parting. His father's counsel. 
His reflections in the stage coach. He consecrates him- 
self to his Maker. .-.. 147 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 

CHAPTER L 

RESPONSIBILITY. 

In large cities there are so many persons guilty 
of crimes, that it is necessary to have a court sit 
every day to try those who are accused of breaking 
the laws. This court is called the Police Court. 
If you should go into the room where it is held, 
you would see the constables bringing in one after 
another of miserable and wicked creatures, and, 
after stating and proving their crimes, the judge 
would command them to be led away to prison. 
They would look so wretched that you would be 
shocked in seeing them. 

One morning a poor woman came into the Police 
Court in Boston. Her eyes were red with weep- 
ing, and she seemed to be borne down with sor- 
row. Behind her followed two men, leading in her 
daughter. 

" Here, sir," said a man to the judge, " is a girl 
who conducts so badly that her mother cannot live 

i 



8 THK CHILD AT HOME. 

with her, and she mui it to the I louse of Cor 

rection. 

M My good woman, 11 said the judge, M what is it 
that your daughter does which renders it so uncom- 
fortable to live with her?" 

11 < 'ii. Bir/ 1 she replied, " it is hard fur a mother 
to accuse her own daughter, and to be th< 
of Bending her to the prison. J3ut she conducts 
so as to destroy all the peace of my life. She has 
such a temper, that she sometimes threatens to 
kill me, and does every thing to make my life 
wretched." 

The unhappy woman could say no more. Her 
heart seemed bursting with grief, and si * 
aloud. The heart of the judge was moved with 
pity, and the bystanders could hardly refrain from 
weeping with this afflicted mother. But there stood 
the hard-hearted girl, unmoved. She looked upon 
the sorrows of her parent in sullen silence. She 
was so hardened in sin, that she seemed perfectly 
insensible to pity or affection. And yet she was 
miserable. Her countenance showed that passion 
and malignity filled her heart, and that the fear of 
the prison, to which she knew she must go, filled 
her with rage. 

The judge turned from the afflicted mother, 
whose sobs filled the room, and, asking a few 
questions of the witnesses, who testified to the 
daughter's ingratitude and cruelt; I r to 



RESPONSIBILITY. 9 

be led away to the House of Correction. The offi- 
cers of justice took her by the arm, and carried her 
to her gloomy cell. Her lonely and sorrowing mo- 
ther went weeping home to her abode of penury 
and desolation. Her own daughter was the vi- 
per which had stung her bosom. Her own child 
was the wretch who was filling her heart with 
sorrow. 

And while I now write, this guilty daughter is 
occupying the gloomy cell of the prison, and this 
widowed mother is in her silent dwelling, in lone- 
liness and grief! Oh, could the child who reads 
these pages, see that mother and that daughter 
now, you might form some feeble idea of the 
consequences of disobedience ; you might see how 
unutterable the sorrow a wicked child may bring 
upon herself and upon her parents, It is not 
easy, in this case, to judge which is the most un- 
happy, the mother or the child. The mother is 
broken-hearted at home. She is alone and friend- 
less. All her hopes are most cruelly destroyed. 
She loved her daughter, and hoped that she would 
live to be her friend and comfort. But instead 
of that, she became her curse, and is bringing 
her mother's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. 
And then look at the daughter — guilty and aban- 
doned — Oh, who can tell how miserable she 
must be ! 

Such is the grief which children may bring upon 



10 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

themselves and their parents. You probably have 

never thought of this very much. I write this book 
that you may think of it, and that you may, by obe- 
dience and affection, make your parents happy, and 
be happy yourselves. 

This wicked girl was once a playful child, in- 
nocent and happy. Her mother looked upon her 
with most ardent love, and thai her 

daughter would In her companion and friend. 

At first she ventured to trifling- 

thing. She still loved her mother, and would have 
been struck with horror at the thought of I • 
guilty of crimes which she afterwards committed. 
But she went on from bad to worse, every day grow- 
ing more disobedient, until she made her poor mo- 
ther so miserable that she almost wished to die, 
and till she became so miserable herself, that life 
must have been a burden. You think, perhaps, 
that you never shall be so unkind and wicked as 
she finally became. But if you begin as sh< 
by trifling disobedience, and little acts of unkind- 
ness, you may soon be as wicked as she, and make 
your parents as unhappy as is her poor broken- 
hearted mother. 

Persons never become so very wicked all at once. 
They go on from step to step, in disobedience and 
ingratitude, till they lose all feeling, and can see 
their parents weep, and even die in their grief, with- 
out a tear. 



RESPONSIBILITY. 11 

Perhaps, one pleasant day, this mother sent her 
little daughter to school. She took her hooks, and 
walked along, admiring the beautiful sunshine, 
and the green and pleasant fields. She stopped 
one moment to pick a flower, again to chase a but- 
terfly, and again to listen to a little robin, pouring 
out its clear notes upon the bough of some lofty 
tree. It seemed so pleasant to be playing in the 
fields, that she was unwilling to go promptly to 
school. She thought it would not be very wrong 
to play a little while. Thus she commenced. The 
next day she ventured to chase the butterflies far- 
ther, and to rove more extensively through the 
field in search of flowers. And as she played by 
the pebbles in the clear brook of rippling water, 
she forgot how fast the time was passing. And 
when she afterwards hastened to school, and was 
asked why she was so late, to conceal her fault she 
was guilty of falsehood, and said that her mother 
wanted her at home. Thus she advanced rapidly 
in crime. Her lessons were neglected. She loved 
the fields better than her book, and would often 
spend the whole morning idle, under the shade 
of some tree, when her mother thought her safe 
in school. Having thus become a truant and a de- 
ceiver, she was prepared for any crimes. Good 
children would not associate with her, and conse- 
quently she had to choose the worst for her com- 
panions and her friends. She learned wicked Ian- 



H TUB CHILD AT HOME. 

guagc ; *\u> was rude and vulvar in licr manners; 
she indulged ungovernable passion; and at last 
grew so bad, that when her family afterwards re- 
moved to the city, the IIou.se of Correction became 
her ignominious home. And there she is now, 
guilty and wretched. And her poor mother, in 
her solitary dwelling, is weeping over her daugh- 
ter's disgrace. Who can comfort such a Mother ! 
Where is there any earthly joy to which she can 
look? 

Children generally do not think how much the 
happiness of their parents depends upon their con- 
duct. But you now see how very unhappy you can 
make them. And is there a child who reads this 
book, who would be willing to be the cause of sor- 
row to his father and his mother? After all they 
have done for you, in taking care of you when an 
infant, in watching over you when sick, in giving 
you clothes to wear, and food to eat, can you be so 
ungrateful as to make them unhappy? You have 
all read the story of the kind man, who found a 
viper lying upon the ground almost dead with 
cold. He took it up and placed it in his bosom to 
warm it, and to save its life. And what did that 
viper do ? He killed his benefactor ! Vile, vile rep- 
tile ! Yes ! as soon as he was warm and well, he 
stung the bosom of his kind preserver, and killed 
him. 

But that child is a worse viper, who, by his in- 



RESPONSIBILITY. 13 

gratitude, will sting the bosoms of his parents; 
who, by disobedience and unkindness, will destroy 
their peace, and thus dreadfully repay them for 
all their love and care. God will not forget the 
sins of such a child. His eye will follow you to 
see your sin, and his arm will reach you to punish. 
He has said, Honor your father and your mother. 
And tke child who does not do this, must meet 
with the displeasure of God, and must be for ever 
shut out from heaven. Oh, how miserable must 
this wicked girl now be, locked up in the gloomy 
prison ! But how much more miserable will she be 
when God calls her to account for all her sins !— 
when, in the presence of all the angels, the whole 
of her conduct is brought to light, and God says 
to her, " Depart from me, ye cursed !" As she 
goes away from the presence of the Lord, to the 
gloomy prisons of eternal despair, she will then 
feel a degree of remorse which I cannot describe 
to you. It is painful to think of it. Ah, wretched, 
wretched girl ! Little are you aware of the woes 
you are preparing for yourself. I hope that no 
child who reads these pages will ever feel these 
woes. 

You have just read that it is in your power 
vO make your parents very unhappy ; and you have 
seen how unhappy one wicked girl made her poor 
mother. I might tell you many such melancholy 
stories, all of which would be true. A few years 

Child at Home. 2 



14 I II K < H1LD a I no 

ago there was a boy who began to be disobedient 
to his parents in little things. I. f day he 

grew worse, more disobedient and wilful, and tro-u- 

•me. He would run away from school, and 

thus grew up in ignorance. He associated with 

had hoys, and learned to swear and to lie, and 10 

steal. He became so had that his parents could do 
nothing- with him. Every body who knew him, 
said, 4i That hoy is preparing for the galloi 
He was the pest of the neighborhood. At last he 

ran away from home, without letting his parents 
know that he was going. He had heard of the 
sea, and thought it would be a very pleasant thing 
to he a sailor. But nothing is pleasant to the wick- 
ed. When he came to the sea-shore, where there 
were a large number of ships, it was some time 
before any one would hire him, because he knew 
nothing about a ship or the sea. There was no one 
there who was his friend, or who pitied him, and 
he sat down and cried bitterly, wishing he was at 
home again, but ashamed to go back. At last a sea 
captain came along, and hired him to go on a dis- 
tant voyage; and as he knew nothing about the 
rigging of a vessel, he was ordered to do the most 
servile work on board. He swept the decks and 
the cabin, and helped the cook, and was the ser- 
vant of all. He had the poorest food to eat he ever 
ate in his life. And when night came, and he was 
so tired that he could hardly stand, he had no 



RESPONSIBILITY. 15 

soft bed upon which to lie, but could only wrap a 
blanket around him, and throw himself down any- 
where to get a little sleep. This unhappy boy had 
acquired so sour a disposition, and was so dis- 
obliging, that all the sailors disliked him, and 
would do every thing they could to teaze him. 
When there was a storm, and he was pale with 
fear, and the vessel was rocking in the wind, and 
pitching over the waves, they would make him 
climb the mast, and laugh to see how terrified he 
was, as the mast reeled to and fro, and the wind 
almost blew him into the raging ocean. Often 
did this poor boy get into some obscure part of 
the ship, and weep as he thought of the home he 
had forsaken. He thought of his father and mo- 
ther, how kind they had been to him, and how 
unkind and ungrateful he had been to them, and 
how unhappy he had made them by his miscon- 
duct. But these feelings soon wore away. Fa- 
miliarity with sea life gave him courage, and he 
became inured to its hardships. Constant inter- 
course with the most profligate and abandoned, 
gave strength and inveteracy to his sinful habits ; 
and before the voyage had terminated, he was 
reckless of danger, and as hardened and unfeel- 
ing as the most depraved on board the ship. 
This boy commenced with disobedience in little 
.hings, and grew worse and worse, till he forsook 
his father and his mother, and was prepared for the 



1G Till ('II I LI) AT HO ML. 

abandonment of every virtue, and the commission 
of any crime. Bat the eye of Uod was upon him, 
following him wherewr be went, and marking all 
bit iniquities. An hour of retribution was approach- 
ing. It is not necessary for me to trace out to you 
his continued steps of progress in sin. When on 
shore, he passed his time in haunts of dissipation. 
And several years rolled on in this way, he grow- 
ing more hardened, and his acred parents, in their 
loneliness, weeping over the ruin of their guilty and 
wandering son. 

One day an armed vessel sailed into one of the 
principal ports of the United States, accompanied 
by another, which had been captured. When they 
arrived at the wharf, it was found that the ves- 
sel taken was a pirate. Multitudes nocked down 
upon the wharf to see the pirates as they should 
be led off to the prison, there to await their trial. 
Soon they were brought out of the ship, with their 
handr; fastened with chains, and led through the 
streets. Ashamed to meet the looks of honest men, 
and terrified with the certainty of condemnation 
and execution, they walked along with downcast 
eyes and trembling limbs. Among the number 
was seen the unhappy and guilty boy, now grown 
to be a young man, whose history we are relating. 
He was locked up in the dismal dungeon of a pri- 
son. The day of trial came. Pale and trembling, 
he was brought before the judge. He was clearly 



RESPONSIBILITY. 17 

proved guilty, and sentenced to be hung. Again 
he was carried back to his prison, there to remain 
till the hour for his execution should arrive. News 
was sent to his already broken-hearted parents, that 
their son had been condemned as a pirate, and was 
soon to be hung. The tidings was almost too much 
for them to endure. In an agony of feeling which 
cannot be described, they wept together. They 
thought of the hours of their child's infancy, 
when they watched over him in sickness, and 
soothed him to sleep. They thought how happy 
they felt when they saw the innocent smile play 
upon his childish cheek. They thought of the 
joy they then anticipated in his opening years, 
and of the comfort they hoped he would be to 
them in their declining days. And now to think 
of him, a hardened criminal, in the murderer's 
cell! — Oh, it was too much, too much for them 
to bear. It seemed as though their hearts would 
burst. Little did they think, when, with so much 
affection they caressed their infant child, that he 
would be the curse of their life, embittering all 
their days, and bringing down their gray hairs 
with sorrow to the grave. Little did they think, 
that his first trifling acts of disobedience would 
lead on to such a career of misery and of crime. 
But the son was sentenced to die, and the penalty 
of the law could not be avoided His own remorse 
2* 



18 Tin: child at home. 

and his parents 1 tears could be of no avail. Ago- 
nizing as it would be to their feelings, they felt 
that they must go and see their son before he 
should die. 

One morning, a gray-headed man, and an aged 
and infirm woman, were seen walking along, with 
(altering footsteps, through the street which led to 
the prison. It was the heart-broken father and 
mother of this unnatural child. When they came 
in sight of the gloomy granite walls and iron-grat- 
ed windows of this dreary abode, they could hardly 
proceed, so overwhelming were the feelings which 
pressed upon their minds. When arrived at the 
door of the prison, the aged father, supporting 
upon his arm the weeping and almost fainting 
mother, told the jailer who they were, and request- 
ed permission to see their son. Even the jailer, 
accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, could 
not witness this exhibition of parental grief with- 
out being moved to tears. He led the parents 
through the stone galleries of the prison, till they 
came to the iron door of the cell in which their 
son was confined. As he turned the key with all 
his strength, the heavy bolt flew back, and he 
opened the door of the cell. Oh, what a sight for 
a father and a mother to gaze upon ! There was 
just enough light in this gloomy abode to show 
them their son, sitting in the corner on the stone 



RESPONSIBILITY, 19 

floor, pale and emaciated, and loaded with chains. 
The moment the father beheld the pallid features 
of his long-absent son, he raised his hands in 
the agony of his feelings, and fell fainting at his 
feet. The mother burst into loud exclamations of 
grief, as she clasped her son, guilty and wretched 
as he was, to her maternal bosom. Oh, who can 
describe this scene! Who can conceive the an- 
guish which wrung the hearts of these afflicted 
parents! And it was their own boy, whom they 
had loved and cherished, who had brought all this 
wo upon them. I cannot describe to you the 
scene which ensued. Even the very jailer could 
not bear it, and he wept aloud. At last he was 
compelled to tear the parents away; and it was 
agonizing indeed to leave their son in such a situ- 
ation, soon to be led to an ignominious death. 
They would gladly have staid and died with their 
guilty child. But it was necessary that they 
should depart; and, the jailer having closed the 
door and turned the massive bolt, they left the 
unhappy criminal in his cell. Oh, what would 
he have given, again to be innocent and free! 
The parents returned to their home, to weep by 
day and by night, and to have the image of their 
guilty son disturbing every moment of peace, and 
preventing the possibility of joy. The day of 
execution soon arrived, and their son was led to 
the gallows, and launched into eternity. And, 



20 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

crimsoned with guilt, be went to the bar of God, 
there to answer for all the crimes of which he 
had been guilty, and for all the woes he had 
caused* 

You see, then, how great an* your responsibili- 
ties as a child. You have thought, perhaps, that 
you have no power over your parents, and that 
you are not accountable for the sorrow which your 
conduct may cause them. Think you that God 
will hold this child guiltless for all the sorrow he 
caused his father and his mother ' And think you 
God will hold any child guiltless, who shall, by 
his misconduct, make his parents unhappy I No. 
You must answer to God for every thing you do, 
which gives your parents pain. And there is no 
sin greater in the sight of God than that of an un- 
grateful child. I have shown you, in the two illus- 
trations which you have just read, how much the 
happiness of your parents depends upon your con- 
duct. Every day you are promoting their joy or 
their sorrow. And every act of disobedience, or oi 
ingratitude, however trifling it may appear to you, 
is, in the eyes of your Maker, a sin which cannot 
pass unnoticed. Do you ask, Why does God con- 
sider the ingratitude of children as a sin of pecu- 
liar aggravation ? I reply, Because you are under 
peculiar obligation to love and obey your parents 
They have loved you when you could not love 
them. They have taken care of you when you 



RESPONSIBILITY. 21 

could not reward them. They have passed sleep- 
less nights in listening to your cries, and weary 
days in watching over you, when you could neither 
express thanks nor feel grateful. And after they 
have done all this, is it a small sin for you to dis- 
obey them and make them unhappy? 

And indeed you can do nothing to make your- 
self so unhappy as to indulge in disobedience, and 
to cherish a spirit of ingratitude. You never see 
such a child happy. Look at him at home, and, 
instead of being light-hearted and cheerful, he is 
sullen and morose. He sits down by the fireside 
in a winter evening, but the evening fireside 
affords no joy to him. He knows that his pa- 
rents are grieved at his conduct. He loves nobody, 
and feels that nobody loves him. There he sits 
silent and sad, making himself miserable by his 
own misconduct. The disobedient boy or girl is 
always unhappy. You know how different the 
dispositions of children are. Some are always 
pleasant and obliging, and you love their company. 
They seem happy when they are with you, and 
they make you happy. Now you will almost 
always find, that such children are obedient to 
their parents. They are happy at home, as well 
as abroad. God has in almost every case con- 
nected enjoyment with duty, and sorrow with sin. 
But in no case is this connection more intimate, 
than in the duty which children owe their parents. 



22 thi: CHILD at home. 

And to every child who reads this book, I would 
say. If fOU Wish t<> bt htij/jni, ffOU MUti he good. 

Do remember this. Let no temptation induce you 
i)\ a moment to disobey. The more ardently you 
love your parents, the more ardently will they love 
you. But if you are ungrateful and disobedient, 
childhood will pass away in sorrow; all the vir- 
tuous will dislike you. and you will have no fr.' 
worth possessing. When you arrive at mature 
age, and enter upon the active duty of life, you 
will have acquired those feelings which will de- 
prive you of the affection of vour fellow beings, 
and you will probably ^0 through the world un- 
beloved and unrespected. Call you be willing so 
to live? 

The following account, written by one who, 
many years after her mother's death, visited her 
grave, forcibly describes the feelings which the 
remembrance of the most trifling act of ingrati- 
tude will, under such circumstances, awaken. 

"It was thirteen years since my mother's death, 
when, after a long absence from my native village, 
I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which 
I had seen her buried. Since that mournful 
period, a great change had come over me. My 
childish years had passed away, and with them my 
youthful character. The world was altered too ; 
and as I stood at my mother's grave, I could 
hardly realize, that I was the same though'. 



RESPONSIBILITY. 23 

happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed 
in an excess of tenderness. But the varied events 
of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance 
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen 
her but yesterday — as the blessed sound of her well- 
remembered voice was in my ear. The gay dreams 
of my infancy and childhood were brought back so 
distinctly to my mind, that, had it not been for one 
bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have 
been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may 
seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now pains 
my heart, and I relate it, that those children who 
have parents to love them may learn to value them 
as they ought. 

"My mother had been ill a long time, and I 
became so accustomed to her pale face and weak 
voice, that I was not frightened at them, as chil- 
dren usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed 
violently ; but when, day after day, I returned from 
school, and found her the same, I began to believe 
she would always be spared to me. But they told 
me she would die. 

"One day, when I had lost my place in the 
class, and had done my work wrong side outward, 
I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to 
my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual, 
but she met me with the same affectionate smile 
that always welcomed my return. Alas, when I 
look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I 



\i\ mi. CHILD a i iioMi. 

think my heart must have been stone nut to have 
melted by it. Shu requested me to go down stairs 
and bring her a glass o{ water. I pettishly asked 
why she did nut call a domestic to do it. With 
a look .of mild reproach, which I shall never forget, 
if 1 live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And 
will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her 
poor sick mother V 

"1 went and brought her the water, but I did 
not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing 
iier, as I was wont to do, I set the glass down very 
quickly, and left the room. After playing about 
a short time, I went to bed without bidding my 
mother good night. But when alone in my room, 
in darkness and in silence, I remembered how 
pale she looked, and how her voice trembled when 
she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of 
water for her poor sick mother?' I could not 
sleep. I stole into her chamber to ask forgiveness. 
She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told 
mc I must not waken her. I did not tell any one 
what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, re- 
solved to rise early in the morning, and tell her 
how sorry I was for my conduct. 

" The sun w r as shining brightly when I awoke ; 
and, hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my 
mother's chamber. She was dead ! She never 
spoke more — never smiled upon me again — 
and when I touched the hand that used to rest 



RESPONSIBILITY. 25 

upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it 
made me start. I. bowed down by her side, and 
sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought 
then I might wish to die, and be buried with her, 
and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were 
they mine to give, could my mother but have lived 
to tell me that she forgave my childish ingratitude. 
But I cannot call her back ; and when I stand by 
her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold 
kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she 
gave me will bite like a serpent and sting like an 
adder," 

And when your mother dies, do you not think 
that you will feel remorse for every unkind word 
you have uttered, and for every act of ingratitude ? 
Your beloved parents must soon die. You will 
probably be led into their darkened chamber, to 
see them pale and helpless on their dying bed. 
Oh, how will you feel in that solemn hour ! All 
your past life will come to your mind, and you 
will think that you would give worlds, if you could 
blot out the remembrance of past ingratitude. You 
will think that, if your father or mother should 
only get well, you would never do any thing to 
grieve them again. But the hour for them to die 
must come. You may weep as though your heart 
would break, but it will not recall the past, and it 
will not delay their death. They must die; and 
you will probably gaze upon their cold and lifeless 

Child at Home. 3 



26 THE C ttfLD A I IKiMi 

countenances io the coffin. You will follow them 
to the grave, and Bee them buried fur ever from 

your Bight. Oh, how unhappy you will fuel, if you 

then have to reflect upon your misconduct ! The 

tears you will shed over their graves will be the 

re bitter, because you will feel that, perhaps, 

your own misconduct hastened their death. 

But perhaps you will die before your parentn 
do. If you go into the grave-yard, you will see the 
graves of many children. You know that the 
young are liable to die, as well as the old. And 
what must be the feelings of the dying child, who 
knows that he is going to appear before God in 
judgment, and yet feels conscious that he has 
been unkind to his parents ! Oh, such a child 
must fear to go into the presence of his Maker. 
He must know that God will never receive into 
heaven children who have been so wicked. I 
have seen many children die. And I have seen 
some, who had been very amiable and pleasant 
all their lives, when they came to die, feel grieved 
that they had not been more careful to make their 
parents happy. I knew one affectionate little 
girl, who w r as loved by all who knew her. She 
hardly ever did any thing which was displeasing 
to her parents. But one day she was taken sick. 
The doctor was called ; but she grew worse and 
worse. Her parents watched over her with anx- 
iety and tears, but still her fever raged, and 



RESPONSIBILITY. 27 

death drew nearer. At last all hopes of her re- 
covery were over, and it was known that she must 
die. Then did this little girl, when she felt that 
she must leave her parents for ever, mourn that 
she had ever done any thing to give them pain. 
The most trifling act of disobedience, and the 
least unkindness of which she had ever been 
guilty, then came fresh into her mind, and she 
could not die in peace, till she had called her 
father and her mother to her bedside, and implored 
their forgiveness. If so obliging and affectionate 
a little girl as this felt so deeply in view of the 
past, when called upon to die, how agonizing must 
be the feelings which will crowd upon the heart 
of the wicked and disobedient child who has filled 
her parents' heart with sorrow ! 

But you must also remember, that there is a 
day of judgment to come. You must appear be- 
fore God to answer for every thing you have done 
or thought while in this world. Oh, how will the 
ungrateful child then feel ! Heaven will be before 
him, in all its beauty and bliss, but he cannot 
enter. 

" Those holy gates for ever bar 
Pollution, sin and shame." 

He has, by his ingratitude, made a home on earth 
unhappy, and God will not permit him to destroy 
the happiness of the homes in heaven. 



28 TBI CHILD at BOMS. 

lie will sec all ike angels in their holiness and 
their joy, but he cannot be permitted to join that 
blessed throng. Willi his ungrateful heart lie 
would but destroy their enjoyment. The frown 
of God must be upon him, and he must depart 
to that wretched world where all the wicked are 
assembled. There he must live in sorrows which 
have no end. Oh, children, how great are your 
responsibilities ! The happiness of your parents 
depends upon your conduct. And your ingrati- 
tude may fill your lives with sorrow, and your 
eternity with wo. Will you not, then, read this 
book with care, and pray that Clod will aid you to 
obey its directions, that your homes on earth may 
be joyful, and that you may be prepared for hap- 
pier homes beyond the stars 1 



CHAPTER II. 



DECEPTION. 



Probably nearly all who read this book have 
heard the story of George Washington and his 
hatchet. 

George, when a little boy, had received from 
his father a hatchet, and he, much pleased with 
his present, walked around the house trying its 



DECEPTION. 29 

keen edge upon every thing which came within 
his reach. At last he came to a favorite pear-tree 
of his father's, and began, with great dexterity, to 
try his skill in felling trees. After hacking upon 
the bark until he had completely ruined the tree, 
he became tired, and went into the house. Before 
long, his father, passing by, beheld his beautiful 
tree entirely ruined; and, entering the house, he 
earnestly asked who had been guilty of the de- 
struction. For a moment George trembled and 
hesitated. He was strongly tempted to deny that 
he knew any thing about it. But summoning all 
his courage, he replied, " Father, I cannot tell a lie. 
I cut it with my hatchet." His father clasped 
him to his arms, and said, " My dear boy, I would 
rather lose a thousand trees than have my son a 
liar." 

This little anecdote shows that George Wash- 
ington, when a boy, was too brave and noble to tell 
a lie. He had rather be punished than be so 
mean and degraded as to utter a falsehood. He 
did wrong to cut the pear-tree, though, perhaps, he 
did not know the extent of the injury he was 
doing. But had he denied that he did it, he would 
have been a cowardly and disgraceful liar. His 
father would have been ashamed of him, and 
would never have known when to believe him. 
If little George Washington had told a lie then, it 
is by no means improbable that he would have 
3* 



30 Tin: CHILD AT BOMB. 

gODfl on from falsehood to falsehood, till everv 
body would have despised him. And lie would thus 
have become a disgfacc to his parent! and friends, 

instead of a blessing to his countrv and the world. 
No boy, who has one particle of that noble spirit 
which George Washington had, will tell a lie. It is 
one of the most degrading of sins. There is no one 
who does not regard a liar with contempt. Almost 
always, when a lie is told, two sins are committed. 
The first is, the child has done something which 
he knows to be wrong. And the second is, that 
he has not courage enough to admit it, and tells a 
lie to hide his fault. And therefore, when a child 
tells a lie, you may always know that that child is 
a coward. George Washington was a brave man. 
When duty called him, he feared not to meet dan- 
ger and death. He would march to the mouth of 
the cannon in the hour of battle; he would ride 
through the field when bullets were flying in every 
direction, and strewing the ground with the dead, 
and not a nerve would tremble. Now, we see that 
George Washington was brave when a boy, as 
well as when a man. He scorned to tell a lie, and, 
like a noble-hearted boy, as he was, he honestly 
avowed the truth. Every body admires courage, 
and every body despises cowardice. The liar, 
whether he be a boy or a man, is looked upon 
with disgust. 

Cases will occur in which you will be strongly 



DECEPTION. 31 

tempted to say that which is false. But if you yield 
to the temptation, how can you. help despising your- 
self? A little girl once came into the house and 
told her mother something which was very impro- 
bable. Those who were sitting in the room with 
her mother did not believe her, for they did not 
know the character of the little girl. But the mo- 
ther replied at once, " I have no doubt that it is 
true, for I never knew my daughter to tell a lie." 
Is there not something noble in having such a cha- 
racter as this ? Must not that little girl have felt 
happy in the consciousness of thus possessing her 
mother's entire confidence % Oh, how different must 
have been her feelings from those of the child 
whose word cannot be believed, and who is regard- 
ed by every one with suspicion ! Shame, shame on 
the child who has not magnanimity enough to tell 
the truth. 

God will not allow such sins to go unpunished. 
Even in this world the consequences are generally 
felt. God has given every person a conscience, 
which approves that which is right, and condemns 
that which is wrong. When we do any thing 
wrong, our consciences punish us for it, and we 
are unhappy. When we do any thing that is right, 
the approval of conscience is a reward. Every 
day you feel the power of this conscience approv- 
ing or condemning what you do. Sometimes a 
person thinks that if he does wrong, and it is not 



32 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

found out, he will escape punishment. But it is 
not so. lie will be punished whether it is found 
out or not. Conscience will punish him if no one 

else does. 

There was once a boy whose father sent him 

to ride a few miles upon an errand, and to-ld him 
particularly not to stop by the way. It was a 
beautiful and sunny morning in the spring; and 
as he rode along by the preen fields, and heard the 
singing of the birds as they flew from tree to tree, 
he felt as light-hearted and as happy as they. After 
doing his errand, however, as he was returning by 
the house where two of his friends and playmates 
lived, he thought he could not resist the temptation 
just to call a moment to see them. He thought 
there would be no great harm if he merely stop- 
ped a minute or two, and his parents would never 
know it. Here commenced his sin. He stop- 
ped, and was led to remain longer and longer, 
till he found he had passed two hours in play. 
Then, with a troubled conscience, he mounted his 
horse, and set his face towards home. The fields 
looked as green, and the skies as bright and 
cloudless, as when he rode along in the morning; 
but, oh, how different were his feelings ! Then he 
was innocent and happy ; now he was guilty and 
wretched. He tried to feel easy, but he could not ; 
conscience reproached him with his sin. He rode 
sadly along, thinking what excuse he should make 



DECEPTION. 33 

to his parents for his long absence, when he saw 
his father, at a distance, coming to meet him. His 
father, fearing that some accident had happened, 
left home in search of his son. The boy trembled 
and turned pale as he saw him approaching, and 
hesitated whether he had better confess the truth 
at once, and ask forgiveness, or endeavor to hide 
the crime with a lie. Oh, how much better it would 
have been for him if he had acknowledged the truth ! 
How much sooner would he have been restored to 
peace ! But one sin almost always leads to another. 
When this kind father met his son with a smile, the 
boy said, " Father, I lost the road, and it took me 
some time to get back again, and that is the reason 
w r hy I have been gone so long." 

His father had never known him to be guilty of 
falsehood before, and was so happy to find his son 
safe, that he did not doubt what he said was true. 
But, oh, how guilty, and ashamed, and wretched, 
did that boy feel, as he rode along ! His peace of 
mind was destroyed. A heavy weight of con- 
scious guilt pressed upon his heart. The boy 
went home and repeated the lie to his mother. 
It is always thus when we turn from the path of 
duty ; we know not how widely we shall wander. 
Having committed one fault, he told a lie to con- 
ceal it, and then added sin to sin, by repeating 
and persisting in his falsehood. What a change 
had one short half day produced in the character 



34 THE CHILD at llo Ml. 

and the happiness 6f this child! Hia parent had 

not yet detected bin in his sin, but be was not, on 
that account, free from punishment. Conscience was 
at work, telling him that he was degraded and guilty. 
His look of innocence and his lightness of heart 
had left him. I le was ashamed to look his father or 
mother in the face. He tried to appear easy and 
happy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A heavy 
load of conscious guilt rested upon him, which de- 
stroyed all his peace. 

When he retired to bed that night, he feared the 
dark. It was long before he could quiet his trou- 
bled spirit with sleep. And when In 1 awoke in the 
morning, the consciousness of his guilt had not for- 
saken him. There it remained fixed deep in his 
heart, and would allow him no peace. He was 
guilty, and of course wretched. The first thought 
which occurred to him, on waking, was the lie of 
the preceding day. He could not forget it. He was 
afraid to go into the room where his parents were, 
lest they should discover, by his appearance, that 
he had been doing something wrong. And though, 
as weeks passed away, the acuteness of his feelil 
in some degree abated, he was all the time disqui- 
eted and unhappy. He was continually fearing that 
something would occur which should lead to his 
detection. 

Thus things went on for several weeks, till, one 
day, the gentleman at whose house he stopped called 



DECEPTION 6b 

at his father's on business. So soon as this boy saw 
him come into the house, his heart beat violently, 
and he turned pale with the fear that something 
would be said that would bring the whole truth to 
light. The gentleman, after conversing a few mo- 
ments with his father, turned to the little boy, and 
said, " Well, how did you get home the other day ? 
My boys had a Yerj pleasant visit from you." Can 
you imagine how the boy felt? You could almost 
have heard his heart beat. The blood rushed into 
his face, and he could not speak ; and he dared not 
raise his eyes from the floor. The gentleman then 
turned to his parents, and said, " You must let your 
son come up again and see my boys. They were 
quite disappointed when he was there a few weeks 
ago, for he only staid about two hours, and they 
hoped he had come to spend the whole day with 
ihem." There, the whole truth was out. And how 
do you suppose that boy felt? He had disobeyed 
his parents ; told a lie to conceal it ; had for weeks 
suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience ; and 
now the whole truth was discovered. He stood 
before his parents overwhelmed with shame, con- 
victed of disobedience, and mean, degraded false- 
hood. 

This boy was all the time suffering the conse- 
quences of his sin. For many days he was endur- 
ing the reproaches of conscience, when the know- 
ledge of his crime was confined to his own bosom- 



J ii i. < ii ii. i) a i no 1 1, 

How bitterly did be Baflei for the few moment* of 
forbidden pleasure he had enjoyed I The way uf 
the transgressor is always hard Every child who 
does wrong must, t<> a greater ot free, feel 

the same sorrows. This guilty child, overwhelmed 
with confusion and disgrace, burst into tears, and 
implored his parents' forgivenfeflA But he was told 
by his parents that he had sinned, n< I only against 
them, but against God The humble child went to 
God in penitence and in prayer. He made a full 
confession of all to his parents, and obtained their 
forgiveness ; and it was not till then that peace of 
mind was restored. 

Will not the child who reads this account take 
warning from it ? If you have done w r rong, you 
had better confess it at once. Falsehood will but 
increase your sin, and aggravate your sorrow. 
Whenever you are tempted to say that which is un- 
true, look fonvard to the consequences. Think how 
much sorrow, and shame, and sin, you will bring 
upon yourself. Think of the reproaches of con- 
science ; for you may depend upon it, that those re- 
proaches are not easily borne. 

And is it pleasant to have the reputation of a 
liar? When persons are detected in one false- 
hood, they cannot be believed when they speak 
the truth. No person can place any more confi- 
dence in them till a long time of penitence has 
elapsed, in which they have had an opportunity 



DECEPTION 37 

to manifest their amendment. The little boy, whose 
case we have above alluded to, was sincerely 
penitent for his sin* He resolved that he never 
would tell another lie. But since he had deceived 
his parents once, their confidence in him was ne- 
cessarily for a time destroyed. They could judge 
of the reality of his penitence only by his future 
conduct. One day he was sent to a store to pur- 
chase some small articles for his mother. In his 
haste, he forgot to stop for the few cents of change 
which he ought to have received. Upon his re- 
turn home, his mother inquired for the change. 
He had not thought a word about it before, and 
very frankly told her, that he had forgotten it en- 
tirely. How did his mother know that he was 
telling the truth? She had just detected him in 
one lie, and feared that he was now telling her 
another. " I hope, my dear son." she said, " you 
are not again deceiving me." The boy was per- 
fectly honest this time, and his parents had never 
before distrusted his word. It almost broke his 
heart to be thus suspected, but he felt thai; it w r as 
just, and went to his chamber and wept bitterly. 
These are the necessary consequences of falsehood. 
A liar can never be believed. It matters not whe- 
ther he tells truth or falsehood, no one can trust 
his word. If you are ever tempted to tell a lie, 
first ask yourself whether you are willing to have 
it said that nobody can trust your word. The liar 

Child at Hoi«e. 4 



TH1 ' • D at ROM* 

is al ach A 

sibly U li a lie ' ted, but 

»8t always something I which brings 

it to light. The boy who at \j when 

d errand two miles from hi 
thought that his falsehood would never be disco- 
vered. But he was detected, and overwhelmed with 
sham 

It is impossible for n who is in the ha 

of uttering untruths to detection. Your < 

racter for truth or falsehood will And 

what can be more humiliating and degrading than 
to have tin? name of a liar? It is so considered hfi 
all nations and with all people. It is considered 
one of the meanest and most cowardly vices of 
which one can be guilty. The liar is always a 
coward. He tells lies, because he is afraid to tell 
me truth. 

And 1; • v do yeu ppose the liar must f 
he comes to Q solemn hour. I 

many of the m who read this 

never se D rson die. I haw iany. I 

have seen children of ail ages dressed in the 
shroud and placed in the coffin, i write 

s in describing to you such sc One day 

I went to see a little izirl about ten vears of i 
who was very sick. A\ nen I went into the room, 
she was lying upon the litl her lips 

parched with and her face pale and ei. 



DECEPTION. 39 

ated with suffering. Her mother was standing 
by her bed-side, weeping as though her heart 
would break. Other friends were standing 
around, looking in vain for something to do to 
relieve the little sufferer. I went and took her 
by the hand, and found that she was dying. She 
raised her languid eyes to me, but could not 
speak. Her breathing grew fainter and fainter. 
Her arms and limbs grew cold. We could only 
look mournfully on and see the advances of death, 
without being able to do any thing to stop its 
progress. At last she ceased to breathe. Her 
spirit ascended to God to be judged, and her body 
remained upon the bed, a cold and lifeless corpse. 
All children are exposed to death ; and when you 
least expect it, you may be called to lie upon a 
bed of sickness, and go down to the grave. There 
is nothing to give one joy in such an hour, but a 
belief that our sins are forgiven, and that we are 
going to the heavenly home. But how must a 
child feel in such an hour, when reflecting upon 
falsehoods which are recorded in God's book of 
remembrance ! Death is terrible to the impeni- 
tent sinner ; but it is a messenger of love and of 
mercy to those who are prepared to die. If you 
have been guilty of a falsehood, you cannot die in 
peace till you have repented and obtained for- 
giveness. 

There was a little girl eleven years of age, who 



40 TBI ruii.v AT HOME. 

died a few months ago. She bred the Savior, 

and when told that she could not live, was very 
happy. She said she was happy to dn\ and go 
home and he with her Savior and the angels in 
heaven, lint there was one thing, whirl), for a 
time, weighed heavily upon her mind. A rear or 
two before she felt interested in religion she had 
told a lie to her aunt: and she could not die in 
peace, till she had seen that aunt, confessed her 
sin, and asked forgiveness. I ler aunt was sent 
for, though she was many miles distant. When 
her aunt came, the sick little girl, with sorrow for 
her fault, made confession, and asked forgiveness, 
11 Aunt, 1 ' said she, M I have prayed to God, and 
hope that he has forgiven me; and I cannot die ir» 
peace till I have obtained your forgiveness." If 
any child who reads this book is tempted to de- 
ceive his parents or his friends, I hope he will 
remember that he must soon die, and think how 
he'will feel in that solemn hour. 

But perhaps you think that the falsehood of 
which this girl was guilty was one of peculiar 
aggravation. It was simply this: She was one 
day playing in the room with several little 
children, and was making them laugh very loud. 
Her aunt said, " My dear, you must not make them 
laugh so loud." 

And she replied, " It is not I, aunt, who makes 
them laugh." 



DECEPTION. 41 

This was the falsehood she uttered. And 
though her aunt did not know that it was false, 
the little girl did, and God in heaven did. And 
when she came to die, though it was a year or 
two after, her soul was troubled, and the con- 
sciousness of her sin destroyed her peace. A lie 
is, in the sight of God, a dreadful sin, be it ever 
so trifling in our estimation. When we are just 
ready to leave the world, and to appear before 
God in judgment, the convictions of a guilty 
conscience will press upon the heart like lead. 

There are many ways of being guilty of false- 
hood without uttering the lie direct in words. 
Whenever you try to deceive your parents, in 
doing that which you know they disapprove, you 
do, in reality, tell a lie. Conscience reproves you 
for falsehood. Once, when I was in company, as 
the plate of cake was passed round, a little boy, 
who sat by the side of his mother, took a much 
larger piece than he knew she would allow him to 
have. She happened, for the moment, to be 
looking away, and he broke a small piece off 
and covered the rest in his lap with his handker- 
chief. When his mother looked, she saw the 
small piece, and supposed he had taken no more. 
He intended to deceive her. His mother has never 
found out what he did. But God saw him, and 
frowned upon him, as he committed this sin. And 
do you not think that the boy has already suffered 
4* 



42 THT. CHILD AT HOME. 

for it? Must he not feel mean and contemptible 
whenever he thinks that, merely to get a little bit 
of cake, lie would deceive Ins kind mother? If 
that little boy had one particle of honorable or 
generous feeling remaining in his bosom, he 
would feel reproached and unhappy whenever he 
thought of his meanness. If he was already dead 
to shame, it would show that he had by previous 
deceit acquired this character. And can any one 
love or esteem a child who has become so de- 
graded ? And can a child, who is neither be- 
loved nor respected, be happy ? No ! You may 
depend upon it, that when you see a person guilty 
of such deceit, he does in some way or other, even 
in this world, suffer a severe penalty. A frank 
and open-hearted child is the only happy child. 
Deception, however skilfully it may be practised, 
is disgraceful, and ensures sorrow and contempt. 
If you would have the approbation of your own 
conscience, and the approval of friends, never do 
that which you shall desire to have concealed. 
Always be open as the day. Be above deceit, and 
then you will have nothing to fear. There is 
something delightful in the magnanimity of a per- 
fectly sincere and honest child. No person can 
look upon such a one without affection. You 
are sure of friends, and your prospects of earthly 
usefulness and happiness are bright. 

But we must not forget that there is a day ol 



DECEPTION. 43 

most solemn judgment near at hand. When you 
die, your body will be wrapped in the shroud, and 
placed in the coffin, and buried in the grave; 
and there it will remain and moulder to the dust, 
while the snows of unnumbered winters, and the 
tempests of unnumbered summers, shall rest upon 
the cold earth which covers you. But your spirit 
will not be there. Far away, beyond the cloud- 
less skies, and blazing suns, and twinkling stars, it 
will have gone to judgment. How awful must be 
the scene which will open before you, as you en- 
ter the eternal world ! You will see the throne of 
God: how bright, how glorious, will it burst upon 
your sight ! You will see God the Savior seated 
upon that majestic throne. Angels, in numbers 
more than can be counted, will fill the universe 
with their glittering wings, and their rapturous 
songs. Oh, what a scene to behold ! And then 
you will stand in the presence of this countless 
throng to answer for every thing you have done 
while you lived. Every action and every thought 
of your life will then be fresh in your mind. 
You know it is written in the Bible, "God will 
bring every work into judgment, with every secret 
thing, whether it be good or whether it be evil." 
How must the child then feel who has been guilty 
of falsehood and deception, and has it then 
all brought to light ! No liar can enter the king- 
dom of heaven. Oh, how dreadful must be the 



44 i H B OBI LD at BOM B 

confusion an ne with which ll i • nful 

child will then be overwhelmed ! - will 

all see your sin and your die you 

think they will wish to hare a liar enter heaven, 
to I)'/ associated with them? No! They must 
turn from you with disgust The Savior will 
look upon you in his displeasure. Coi will 

rend your soul. And you must hear the awful 
sentence, "Depart from me, into everlasting lire, 
prepared for the devil and his angels." Oh, it is 
a dreadful thing to practice deceit. It will shut 
you from heaven, it will confine you in eternal 
wo. Though you should ong 

as you live; though you should die, and your false- 
hood not be discovered, the time will soon come 
when it will all he brought to light, and when the 
whole universe of men and of angels will be wit- 
nesses of your shame. If any child who reads 
this feels condemned for past deception, oh, be- 
ware, and do not postpone repentance till the day 
of judgment shall arrive, Go at once to those 
whom you have deceived, and make confession, 
and implore forgiveness. Then go to your Sa- 
vior, fall upon your knees before him ; pray that 
he will pardon you, and promise to sin no more. 
If your prayer is offered in sincerity, and your 
resolution remains unbroken, the Savior will 
forgive you : and when the trump of the archangel 
thai! summon you to judgment, he will give you 



DECEPTION. 45 

a home in heaven. The tear of sincere penitence 
our kind' Saviour is ever ready to accept. 

If you are ever tempted to deceive, O, remem- 
ber, that your deception must soon be known. It 
is utterly impossible that it should long remain 
undetected. The moment the day of judgment ar- 
rives, your heart will be open to the view of the 
universe, and every thought will be publicly known. 
How much safer then is it to be sincere and ho- 
nest ! Strive to preserve your heart free from guile. 
Then you will have peace of conscience. You 
will fear no detection. You can lie down at night 
in peace. You can awake in the morning with 
joy. Trusting in the Saviour for acceptance, you 
can die happy. And when the morning of the re- 
surrection davvns upon you, your heart will be 
filled with a joy which earth's sunniest mornings 
and brightest skies never could afford. The Sa- 
viour will smile upon you. Angels will welcome 
you to heaven. You will rove, in inexpressible de- 
light, through the green pastures of that blissful 
abode. You will lie down by the still waters where 
there is sweet repose for ever. Oh, what an hour 
of bliss must that be, when the child, saved from 
sin and sorrow, 

" Has reached the shore 
Where tempests never beat nor billows roar!" 



46 Tin: child at BOMB. 



CHAPTER III. 

DBED1EBCB. 

In the chapters you have now read, I have en- 
deavored to show you how much your own happi- 
ness, and that of your parents, depend upon vour 
conduct. And I trust every child who has read 
thus far, has resolved to do all in h r to 

promote the happiness of tho8e who 
kind to him. But you will find that it i 
different thing to resolve to do your duty, from 
what it is to perform your resolutions when the 
hour of temptation comes. It requires courage and 
firmness to do right, when you are surrou. 
by those who urge you to do wrong, "i 
tions to do wrong will be continually a and, 

unless you have resolution to brave ; and 

to refuse solicitation, you will be continually \cd 
into trouble. I knew a young man who v. 
ed entirely, because he had not cour ugh 

to say no. He was, when a boy, very amiable in 
his disposition, and did not wish to make any per- 
son unhappy ; but lie had no mind of his own, and 
could be led about by his associates into almost 
anv difficulties, or any sins. If, in a clear m 
light winter evening, his father told him I 



OBEDIENCE. 47 

go out doors, and slide down the hill for half an 
hour, he would resolve to be obedient and return 
home at the time appointed. But if there were other 
hoys there, who should tease him to remain longer 
he had not the courage to refuse. And thus he 
would disobey his kind parents because he had not 
courage to do his duty. He began in this way, and 
so he continued. One day, a bad boy asked him to 
go into a store, and drink some brandy. He knew 
it was wrong, and did not wish to go. But he feared 
that, if he did not, he would be laughed at ; and so 
he went. Having thus yielded to this temptation, he 
was less prepared for temptation again. He went to 
the bottle with one and another, till at last he be- 
came intemperate, and would stagger through the 
streets. He fell into the company of gamblers, be- 
cause he could not refuse their solicitations. He 
thus became a gambler himself, and went on from 
step to step, never having resolution to say no, til! 
he ruined himself, and planted within him the 
seeds of disease, which hurried him to a premature 
grave. He died the miserable victim of his own 
irresolution. 

Thousands have been thus ruined. They are 
amiable in disposition, and in general mean well, 
but have not courage to do their duty. They fear 
that others w r ill laugh at them. Now, unless you 
are sufficiently brave not to care if others do laugh 
at you; unless you have sufficient courage to say 



48 THE CHILD AT HOME 

no. when others tempt you to do wroivj, you wiL 
be always m difficulty : such a person never can 
be bappy or respected. You moat not expect it 
will be always easy to do your doty. At times it 
will require a great mental strug) call into 

exercise all the resolution you possess. It is best 
that it should be so, that you may acquire firmness 

of character and strength of integrity. Near a 
school-house in the country, there was an iipple- 
tree. One summer it was covered with hard, and 
sour, and green apples, and the little girls who 
went to that school could hardly resist the temp- 
tation of eating those apples, though they knew 
there was danger of its making them sick. One 
girl, who went to that school, was expressly for- 
bidden by her mother from eating them. But 
when all her playmates were around her, with the 
apples in their hands, and urging her to eat, telling 
her that her mother never would know it, she 
wickedly yielded to their solicitation. She felt 
guilty, as, in disobedience to her mother's com- 
mands, she ate the forbidden fruit. But she tried 
to appease her conscience by thinking that it cou,g 
do no harm. Having thus commenced disobe- 
dience, she could every day eat more freely, 
and with less reluctance. At last she was taken 
sick. Her mother asked her if she had been eat- 
ing any of the green apples at school. Here came 
another temptation to sin. When we once com 



OBEDIENCE. 49 

mence doing wrong, it is impossible to tell where 
we shall stop. She was afraid to acknowledge to 
her mother her disobedience ; and to hide the fault 
she toid a lie. She declared that she had not 
eaten any of the apples. Unhappy girl ! she had 
first disobeyed her mother, and then told a lie to 
conceal her sin. But she continually grew more 
sick, and it became necessary to send for the 
physician. He came, and when he had looked 
upon her feverish countenance, and felt her throb- 
bing pulse, he said there was something upon 
her stomach which must be removed. As he was 
preparing the nauseous emetic, the conscience-smit- 
ten girl trembled for fear that her disobedience 
and her falsehood should both be brought to light 
As soon as the emetic operated, her mother saw, 
in the half-chewed fragments of green apples, the 
cause of her sickness. What could the unhappy 
and guilty girl say 1 Denial was now, of course, 
out of the question. She could only cover her face 
w r ith her hands, in the vain attempt to hide her 
shame. We hope that this detection and mortifi- 
cation will teach that little girl a lesson which she 
will never forget. And we hope that the relation 
}f the story will induce every child, who reads it, 
t'o guard against temptation, and boldly to resist 
every allurement to sin. Temptations wili be con- 
tinually coming, which you will find it hard to 
resist. But if you once yield, you have entered 

Child at Home. 5 



60 Tin; CHILD at BOM 

that downward path which leads inevitably to 

sorrow and shame. H< would it 

have been in the little girl, whose story we have 
just related, if she had in th< reso- 

lutely refused to her mother's command ! 

How much happier would i when 

retiring to sleep at night, if she had the joy 01 
approving conscience, and could, with a grate- 
ful heart, ask the blessing of ( fod ! The only path 
. and happiness is implicit obedience. Jf 
you, in the slightest particular, yi< ition, 

and do that which you know to be wrong, you will 
not know when or where to stop. ': one 

crime, vou will be guilty of another; and th 



us 



vou will draw down upon yourself the frown of 
your Maker, and expose yourself to sorrow for time 
and eternity. 

And think not that these temptations to do wr< 
will be few or feeble. Hardly a day will 
which you will not be tempted, either through in- 
dolence to neglect your duty, or to do that which 
you know your parents will disapprove. A few 
years a^o, two little boys went t the after- 

noon and evening at the house of one of their play- 
mates, who had a party, to celehr. 

ir parents told them to come home at ei 
o'clock in the evening, ft - autiful afternoon, 

itumn, as the large party of 
sembled at the house of their friend. Numerous 



OBEDIENCE. 51 

bams and sheds were attached to the house, and a 
beautiful grove of beach and of oak surrounded it, 
affording a most delightful place for all kinds of 
sport. Never did boys have a more happy time. 
They climbed the tree, and swung upon the limbs. 
And as they jumped upon the new-made hay in 
the barns, they made the walls ring with their joy- 
ous shouts. Happiness seemed, for the time, to fill 
every heart. They continued their sports till the 
sun had gone down behind the hills, and the last 
ray of twilight had disappeared. When it became 
too dark for out-door play, they went into the house, 
and commenced new plays in the brightly-lighted 
parlor. As they were in the midst of the exciting 
game of " blind man's buff," some one entered the 
room, and requested them all to take their seats, 
for apples and nuts were to be brought in. Just 
as the door was opened by the servant bringing 
in the waiter loaded with apples and nuts, the 
clock struck eight. The boys, who had been told 
to leave at that hour, felt troubled enough. They 
knew not what to do. The temptation to stay 
was almost too strong to be resisted. The older 
brother of the two faintly whispered to one at his 
side, that he must go. Immediately there was an 
uproar all over the room, each one exclaiming 
against it. 

" Why," said one, " my mother told me I might 
stay till nine." 



52 THi: CHILD AT HOME. 

" My mother," said another, "did not say any 
thing about my coming home : she will lei me stay 
as long aa I want to." 

44 I would not he tied to my mother's apron- 
string," said a rude boy, in a distant part of the 
room. 

A timid boy, who lived in the next hous^ to the 
one in which these two little boys lived, came up, 
and said, with a very imploring countenance and 
voice, i4 1 am going home at half past eight. Now 
do stay a little while longer, and then we Will go 
home together. I would not £0 alone, it is so 
dark." 

And even the lady of the house where they were 
visiting, came to them and said, 44 I do not think 
your mother will have any objection to have you 
stay a few moments longer, and eat an apple and a 
few nuts. I would have sent them in earlier, if 1 
had known that you wanted to go." 

Now, what could these poor boys do? How- 
could they summon resolution to resist so much 
entreaty ? For a moment they hesitated, and al- 
most yielded to the temptation. But virtue wa- 
vered only for a moment. They immediately mus- 
tered all their courage, and said, 4< We must go." 
Hastily bidding them all good night, they got 
their hats as quick as they could, for fear, if they 
delayed, they should yield to the temptation, and 
left the house. They stopped not a moment to 



OBEDIENCE. 53 

look back upon the brightly-shining windows, and 
happy group of boys within, but, taking hold of 
each other's hands, ran as fast as they could on 
their way home. When they arrived at home, 
their father and mother met them with a smile. 
And when their parents learnt under what strong 
temptations they had been to disobey, and that 
they had triumphed over these temptations, they 
looked upon their children with feelings of grati- 
fication, which amply repaid them for all their 
trial. And when these boys went to bed that 
night, they felt that they had done their duty, 
and that they had given their parents pleasure; 
and these thoughts gave them vastly more happi- 
ness than they could have enjoyed if they had re- 
mained with their playmates beyond the hour 
which their parents had permitted. This was a 
noble proof of their determination to do their duty. 
And, considering their youth and inexperience, 
and the circumstances of the temptation, it was 
one of the severest trials to which they could be 
exposed. Probably, in all their after life, thev 
would not be under stronger temptations to swerve 
from duty. Now, every child will often be exposed 
to similar temptations. And if your resolution 
be not strong, you will yield. And if you once 
begin to yield, you will never know where to stop 
but, in all probability, will go on from step to step 
till you are for ever lost to virtue and to happiness. 
5* 



;>4 Tin: CHILD AT iiomi:. 

But perhaps some child, who reads this, thinks 
I make too serious a matter of so slight ■ thing* 

You say, It cannot make muck difference whether 
I come home half an hour earlier or later. But 
you are mistaken here. It does make a great dif- 
ference. Think you God can look upon the dis- 
obedience of a child as a trifling sin ? Is it a trifle 
to refuse to obey parents who have loved you, and 
watched over you for months and for years; who 
have taken care of you in sickness, and endea- 
vored to relieve you when in pain ; who have 
given you clothes to wear, and food to eat, and 
have done all in their power to make you happy ? 
It is inexcusable ingratitude. It is awful sin. But 
perhaps you ask, What positive harm does it do ! 
It teaches your parents that their child is unwill- 
ing to obey them ; and is there no harm in that ? 
It makes your parents unhappy | and is there no 
harm in that? It tempts you to disobey in other 
things: and is there no harm in that? It is enter- 
ing upon that career of sin which led the girl, 
whom we have, in the first chapter, described to 
you, to the house of correction, and the wretched 
boy to the gallows. Oh, beware how you think it 
IS a little thing to disobey your parents! Their 
happiness is in a great degree in your hands; and 
every thing which you knowingly do that disturbs 
their happiness in the least degree, is sin in the 
sight of God ; and you must answer for it at his bar. 



OBEDIENCE. 5o 

If you go into any state prison, you will see a 
large number of men working in silence and in 
gloom. They are dressed in clothes of contrasted 
colors, that, in case of escape, they may be easily 
detected. But the constant presence of vigilant 
keepers, and the high walls of stone, guarded by 
an armed sentry, render escape almost impossible. 
There many of these guilty men remain, month af- 
ter month, and year after year, in friendlessness, 
and in silence, and in sorrow. They are in confine- 
ment and disgrace. At night, they are marched to 
their solitary cells, there to pass the weary hours, 
with no friend to converse with, and no joy to 
cheer them. They are left, in darkness and in 
solitude, to their own gloomy reflections. And, 
oh! how many bitter tears must be shed in the 
midnight darkness of those cells ! How many an 
unhappy criminal would give worlds, if he had 
them to give, that he might again be innocent and 
free ! You will see in the prison many who are 
young— almost children. If you go around from 
cell to cell, and inquire how these wretched per- 
sons commenced their course of sin, very many 
will tell you that it was with disobedience to pa- 
rents. You will find prisoners there, whose pa- 
rents are most affectionate and kind. They have 
endeavored to make their children virtuous and 
happy. But, oh! how cruelly have their hopes 
been blasted ! A disobedient son has gone from 



50 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

step to step in crimet till he has brought himself to 
the gloomy cell of the prison, and hat broken his. 
parents 1 hearts by his disobedience. 

The chaplain of the Massachusetti prison 

mtly communicated to the public the following 
interesting narrative of the progress of crime. 

" A few weeks since, I addressed the congre- 
gation to which I minister, on the importance of 
a strict attention to what are usually denominated 
little things ; and remarked, that it is the want of 
attention to these little > h not (infre- 

quently throws a disastrous influence over the 
whole course of subsequent life. It was also fur- 
ther remarked, that a large proportion of the 
events and transactions, which go to make up the 
lives of most men, are, as they are usually esti- 
mated, comparatively unimportant and trivial ; 
and yet, that all these events and transactions 
contribute, in a greater or less degree, to the 
formation of character; and that on moral cha- 
racter are suspended, essentially, our usefulness 
and happiness in time, and our well-being in 
eternity. 

" I then remarked, that I could not doubt, but, 
on sober reflection, many oi that assembly would 
find that they owed the complexion of a great por- 
tion of their lives, and their unhappy situation as 
tenants of the state prison, to some event or trans- 



OBEDIENCE. 57 

action comparatively trivial, and of which, at the 
time, they thought very little. I requested them to 
make the examination, and see whether the remark 
I had made was not correct. 

" This was on the Sabbath. The next morn- 
ing, one of the prisoners, an interesting young 
man, came to me, and observed, that he should be 
glad to have some conversation with me, when- 
ever I should find it convenient. Accordingly, in 
the afternoon of the same day, I sent for him. 
On his being seated, and my requesting him to 
state freely what he wished to say, he remarked, 
1 that he wished to let me know how peculiarly 
appropriate to his case were the observations I 
had made, the previous day, on the influence of 
little things ; and if I would permit him, he would 
give me a brief sketch of his history ; and, parti- 
cularly, of the transaction, which, almost in child- 
hood, had given a disastrous coloring to the 
whole period of his youth, and, in the result, had 
brought him to be an occupant of his present drea- 
ry abode. 5 

" It appears, from the sketch which he gave, that 
he was about ten years of age, when his father 
moved from a distant part of the state to a town in 
the vicinity of Boston. In this town was a respecta- 
ble boarding-school, not a great distance from the 
residence of his father ; and to this school he was 
sent. Having always lived in the country, he had 



5^ TH1 CHILD at Home. 

Been very few of those n< md parades, ami 

r bicfa aTe bo common in and near the city; 

and it is not wonderful, that, when they occurred, 

he should, like most children, feel a strong dei 
to witness them. 

M Before he had been loi 1 e heard 

there was to 1 •• a M C M ' S Brighton. 

I [e had never set n b Q imed 

it must be a very interesting 
very strong desire to attend. Tbi . the 

morning of the first day of the show, I 
to his father, and was told that it 
improper place for him to go to, un' 
by some suitable person to watch over and 
care of him; and that such was the business of the 
father, that he could not accompany him, and, of 
course, his desire could not be gratified. He 
sorely disappointed, but resolved not to give up, 
without further' effort, an object on which his J. 
was so much set. 

"The next morning he beset his father again 
on the subject. His father seemed anxious to fa 
his son gratified, but told him that he could by 
means consent to have him <ro to such a place with- 
out suitable company; and, though his business 
was urgent, he would try to go in the afternoon ; 
and, if lie did, he would call at the school-house, 
and take him with him. This was all he could 
promise. 



OBEDIENCE. 59 

" But here was an uncertainty, an if, which 
very illy accorded with the eager curiosity of the 
son. Accordingly, he resolved that he would go 
at all hazards. He doubted much whether his 
father would go, and if he did not, he concluded 
he* might, without much difficulty, conceal the 
matter from him. Having formed his determina- 
tion and laid his plan, he went, before leaving 
home in the morning, to his father's desk, and took 
a little money to spend on the occasion ; and, in- 
stead of going to school, went to Brighton. Con- 
trary, however, to his expectations and hopes, his 
father, for the sake of gratifying him, concluded to 
go to the show, and, on his way, called for him. 
But no son was to be found, and no son had been 
there that day. The father, during the afternoon, 
saw the son, but took care that the son should not 
discover him. After the return of both at evening, 
the father inquired of the son w r hether he had 
attended school that day. His reply was that he 
had. My youthful readers will perceive how rea- 
dily and naturally one fault leads to another. But 
the son was soon satisfied from further ques- 
tions, and from the manner of his father, that he 
knew where he had been ; and he confessed the 
whole, 

" The father told him that he should feel him- 
self bound in duty to acquaint his teacher with the 
affair, and to request him to call him to account 



GO Till: CHILD AT HOME. 

for ll thus from the school vithouj 

ind to inflict such punishment on bin 
thought 

" He -.'. to school, and, if 

new, disgraced in the estimation of bii 

and I hool-fellows : and hi d not to 

lit to it for any great leu . few 

days alter this, he left home, under pretence of go 
ing to school, and ran away. He travelled on, until 
he reached the town from which his father had re- 
nd had been absent for I 

ascertained what had become of 
him. lie was, however, discovered, and brc 
to his home. 
Some time after this, he was sent to another 
school, in a neighboring town: but, not being al- 
together pleased, he resolved, as he had run ■ 
once, he would try the experiment and this 

A. He had been absent six months before 
parents ascertained what had become of him. He 
had changed his name: but, getting into some dif- 
ficult}-, in consequence of which h o to jail, 
unless he could (ind friends, he was constrained 
to tell his name, and who were his parents: and 
in this way his good father, whom he had so much 
abused, learning his son's condition, stepped in 
to his aid, and saved him from confinement in a 
prison. 

M But I should make this story much too long, 



OBEDIENCE, 61 

were 1 to detail all the particulars of his subsequent 
life until lie became a tenant of the state prison. 
Suffice it to say, that he went on from one mis-step 
to another, until he entered upon that career of 
crime which terminated as before stated. 

" And now, beloved reader, to what do you think 
this unhappy young man ascribes his wanderings 
from home, and virtue, and happiness, and the for- 
lorn condition in which he now finds himself? 
Why, simply, to the trivial circumstance of his 
leaving school one day, without his father's con- 
sent, for the purpose of going to a cattle show f 
And what do you think he says of it now ? ' I feel,' 
said he, ' that all I have suffered, and still suffer, is 
the righteous chastisement of heaven. I deserve it 
all, for my wicked disobedience both to my earthly 
and my heavenly Father ; and I wish,' said he, 
further, ' that you would make such use of my case 
as you shall think best calculated to instruct and 
benefit the young.' 

"And now, beloved reader, I have drawn up this 
sketch — -and I can assure you it is no fictitious one 
—for your perusal. You here see what has been 
the result of a single act of disobedience to a parent ; 
what it has already cost this unhappy man to gra- 
tify, in an unlawful way, his youthful curiosity even 
in a single instance. 

" May He, who giveth wisdom to all who ask it r 
ir.ivd and guide you safely through the journey of 

ChiM at fJeme. $ 



62 Tin: CHILD M home. 

life, and cause that even this humble sketch shall 
serve tO Strengthen you in virtue, and to deter you 

from the paths of the Destroyer.' 1 

Can any child read this narrative without trem 
bling at the thought of disobedience, even in the most 

trifling affair ? If you once disobey your parents, 
it is impossible to tell to what it will lead. Crime 
follows in the steps of crime, till the career is cl< 
by irretrievable disgrace and eternal ruin. The 
consequences reach far, far beyond the grave. They 
afiect our interests and our happiness in that eter- 
nal world to which we are all rapidly going. Y< : 
the child who utters one falsehood, or is guilty of 
one act of disobedience, may, in consequence of 
that one yielding- to temptation, be hurried on from 
crime to crime, till his soul is ruined, and he is 
shut up, by the command of God, in those awful 
dungeons of endless despair prepaied for the devil 
and his angels. 

And how ungrateful is disobedience ! A noble- 
hearted boy would deny himself almost any plea- 
sure ; he would meet almost any danger : he would 
endure almost any suffering, before he would, in 
the most trifling particular, disobey parents who 
had been so kind, and had endured so much to 
make him happy. How different is such a child 
from one who is so ungrateful that he will disobey 
his parents merely that he may play a few moments 



OBEDIENCE. 63 

longer, or that he may avoid some trifling work, 
that he does not wish to perform ! There is a mag- 
nanimity in a child who feels so grateful for his pa- 
rents' love that he will repay them by all the affec- 
tion and obedience in his power, which attracts the 
respect and affection of all who know him. 

Suppose you see a little boy walking before his 
mother. The boy's father is dead ; he has been 
killed in battle. You see the orphan boy carrying 
upon his shoulder his father's sword and cap. You 
look at his poor mother. She is weeping, for her 
husband is dead. She is returning in sorrow to her 
lonely house. She has no friend but her dear boy. 
How ardently does she love him! All her hopes of 
earthly happiness are depending upon his obedience 
and affection. She loves her boy so well, that she 
would be willing to die, to make him happy. She 
will work night and day, while he is young, to sup- 
ply him with clothes and with food. And all she asks 
and hopes is, that her boy will be affectionate, and 
obedient, and good. 

And, oh ! how ungrateful and cruel will he be, if 
he neglect that mother, and by his unkindness cause 
her to weep ! But you see that he looks like a no- 
ble-hearted boy. His countenance seems to say, 
" Dear mother, do not cry ; if ever I grow up to be 
a man, you shall never want, if I can help it." Oh, 
who can help loving the boy who loves his mother ! 

There was a little boy about thiiteen years old, 



64 THE CHILD AT HOKE. 

whose name was ; tnca. His fluher 

commander of a ship of wai the Orient. 

The little boy accompanied bis father to the i 

His shij) was once engaged in 

upon the river Nile. In the i rider* 

of the battle, while the shot were flying thickly 
around, and strewing the decks with this 

brave boy stood by the side of his father, faithfully 
discharging the duties which were assigned to 
him. At last his father placed him in a particular 
part of the ship, to be performing jrrice, 

and told him to remain in his post till he should 
call him away. As the father went to SOS 
tant part of the ship to notice the progress of the 
battle, a ball from the enemy's vessel laid him 
dead upon the deck. But the son, unconscious 
of his fathers death, and faithful to the trust re- 
posed in him, remained in his pnst, waiting for 
his father's orders. The battle raced dreadfi 
around him. The blood of the slain flow • 
feet. The ship took fire, and the threatening 
flames drew nearer and nearer. Still this njbh'- 
hearted boy would not disobey his father. In the 
face of blood, and balls, and tire, he stood firm 
and obedient. The sailors began to desert the 
burning- and sinking ship, and the boy cried out 
44 Father, may I go?" But no voice of permission 
could come from the mangled body of his lift 
father. And the boy, not knowing that lie was 



OBEDIENCE 65 

dead, would rather die than disobey. And there 
that boy stood, at his post, till every man had 
deserted the ship; and he stood and perished in 
the flames. O, what a boy was that ! Every 
body who ever heard of him thinks that he was 
one of the noblest boys that ever was born. 
Rather than disobey his father, he would die in 
the flames. This account has been written in 
poetry; and, as the children who read this book, 
may like to see it, I will present it to them 
here :~ 

CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on ; he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud—" Say, father, say 

" If yet my task is done." 
He knew not that the chieftain lav 

Unconscious of his son. 
6* 



06 TBI CHILD AT I10MK. 

4 Speak, fathei be cried, 

11 [f I may yet be gone." 
And — bu( the booming shots replied, 
And last the flames rolled on. 

Upon bifi brow he felt tlieir breath, 

And in his waving hair; 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My lather, must I staj 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

Then came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he 1 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea. 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part, 
But the noblest thing that perished there, 

Was that young, faithful heart. 

0, who would not love to have such a child as 
that ! Is not such a boy more noble than one 
who will disobey his parents merely that he may 



OBEDIENCE. 63 

have a little play, or that he may avoid some 
unpleasant duty? The brave little Casabianea 
would rather die than disobey. He loved his 
(ather. He had confidence in him. And even 
when death was staring him in the face, when 

" The flames rolled on, he would not go, 
" Without his father's word." 

I have seen some bad boys who thought it 
looked brave to care nothing for the wishes of 
their parents. But do you think that Casabianea 
was a coward ? No ; the boy who is truly brave, 
and has a noble spirit, will obey his parents. If 
others tease him to do differently, he will dare to 
tell them that he means to do his duty : and if 
they laugh at him, he will let them laugh, and 
show them, by his conduct, that he does not care 
for the sneers of bad boys. The fact is, that, in 
almost ail cases, disobedient boys are mean, and 
cowardly, and contemptible. They have not one 
particle of the spirit of the noble little Casabianea. 
And when these disobedient boys grow up to be men, 
they do not command influence or respect. 

If you would be useful and happy when you 
arrive at mature years, you must be affectionate 
and obedient as a child. It is invariably true that 
the path of duty is the path of peace. The child 
who has established principles of firm integrity — 



03 THE CHILD AT HOME 

who has that undaunted resolution which can 
face opposition and brave ridicule — bids fair 
to rise to eminence in usefulness and respect. 
These qualities, which shed so lovely a charm 
over childhood, will go with you into maturer life; 
they will give stability to your character, and 
command respect. And those faults of childhood 
which render one hesitating, and weak, and cow- 
ardly, will, in all probability, continue through 
your whole earthly existence. The man is but 
the grown-up child, possessing generally the same 
traits of character in every period of life. How 
important it is then that, in early youth, you 
should acquire the habit of triumphing over temp- 
tation, and of resolutely discharging all your 
duties ! 

It is important for you to remember that obe- 
dience requires of you, not only to do as you are 
bidden, but to do it icith cheerfulness and alacrity. 
Suppose, as you are sitting at the table in a plea- 
sant evening, the customary hour for you to retire 
to rest arrives. You are, perhaps, engaged in 
reading some very interesting book, and do not 
feel at all sleepy. You ask permission to sit up 
a little longer. But your mother tells you thEK 
the time for you to go to bed has come, and she 
prefers that you should be regular in your habits. 
You think it is rather hard that you cannot be 
indulged in your wishes, and, with sullen looks, 



O B E I) I E N C E GD 

shut your book, and, taking a light, in ill humor 
go to your chamber. Now, this is not obedience. 
As you retire to your chamber, the displeasure 
of God follows you. Your sin of disobedience is 
so great, that you cannot even pray before you 
fall asleep. It is impossible for a person to pray 
when out of humor. You may repeat the words 
of prayer, but you cannot offer acceptable prayer 
to the Lord. And as you lie down upon your 
bed, and the darkness of night is around yon, 
your offended Maker regards you as an ungrateful 
and disobedient child. And all the night long his 
eye is upon your heart, and the knowledge of your 
sin is in his mind. Obedience belongs to the 
heart, as well as to the outward conduct. It is 
necessary that you should, with affection and 
cheerfulness, fulfill the wishes of your parents. 
You should feel that they know what is best, and, 
instead of being sullen and displeased because they 
do not think fit to indulge you in all your wishes, 
you should, with a pleasant countenance and a will- 
ing heart, yield to their requirements. 

You do not know how much pleasure it affords 
your parents to see you happy. They are willing 
to make almost any sacrifice for your good. And 
they never have more heartfelt enjoyment them- 
selves than when they see their children virtuous, 
contented, and happy. When they refuse to gra- 
tify any of your desires, it is not because they 



70 TllK CHILD AT HOME. 

do not wish to see you happy, but because thev 
see that youi happiness will be best promoted by 
refusing your request. They hate lived longer 

in the world than you, and know better than you 
the dangers by which you are surrounded. Deep- 
ly interested in your book, you desire to sit up 
later than usual, and think it would make you 
happy. But your mother, who is older and w; 
knows that the way to make children healthy and 
happy, is to have them in the regular habit of re- 
tiring early at night. And when you ask to sit up 
later than usual, she loves you too well to permit 
it. You think she is cruel, when, in fact, she is 
as kind as she can be. If she were an unkind 
mother, and cared nothing about your happiness, 
she would say, " O yes : you may sit up as long 
as you please. I do not care any thing about it." 

Now, is it obedience, when your kind mother is 
doing all in her power to make you happy, for you 
to look sullen and morose? Is it honoring your 
father and your mother, for you to look offended 
and speak unkindly, because they wish you to do 
that which they know to be for your welfare? 
The truly grateful child will endeavor, always, with 
a pleasant countenance, and a peaceful heart, to 
yield ready obedience to his parents' wishes. He 
will never murmur or complain. Such a child 
can retire to bed at night contented and happy. 
He can sincerely thank God for all his goodness 



OBEDIENCE. 71 

and pray for that protection which God is ever 
ready to grant those who love him. 



CHAPTER IV. 

OBEDIENCE, (continued.'* 

There is hardly any subject upon which chil- 
dren in well-regulated families feel more like com- 
plaining, than of the unwillingness cf their parents 
to indulge them in evening plays and evening 
visits. An active boy, whose heart is full cf fun 
and frolic, is sitting quietly by the fireside, in a 
pleasant winter evening. Every now and then 
he hears the loud shouts and joyful laugh of some 
twenty of his companions, who are making the 
moonlight air ring with their merriment. Occa- 
sionally, a troop of them will go rushing by the 
windows, in the impetuosity of their sports. The 
ardent little fellow by the fireside can hardly con- 
tain himself. He longs to unite his voice in the 
shout, and try his feet in the chase. He nestles 
upon his chair, and walks across the room, and 
peeps through the curtains. As he sees the dark 
forms of the boys clustered together in merry 
groups, or scattered in their plays, he feels as 



i\i THE GUILD AT ROXK 

though be were a prisoner* And even though he 
. and ol rents, be can 

hardly ui d why it is that they deprive hina 

of this pleasure 1 o rhen I was a 

boy, and I suppose other boys t But now 1 

see the reason. Those night plays led 
into bad habits. All kinds of boys met together, 
and book would use indecent and profane lan- 
guage, which depraved the hearts ;md corrupted 
the morals of the rest. The boys who were thus 
spending their evenings, were misimproving * 
time, and acquiring a disrelish for the purifying 
and peaceful enjoyments of home. You s< 
times see men who appear to care nothing al 
their families. They spend their evenings away 
from home with the idle and the dissolute. 
men are miserable and despised. Their (ami 
are forsaken and unhappy. Why do th< 
do so? Because, when they were boys, they spent 
their evenings away from home, playing in the 
streets. Thus home lost all its eha irtue 

was banished from their bosoms, and life was 
robbed of its joy. I wish every boy who reads 
this would think of these reasons, and see if they 
are not sufficient. Your kind parents do not 
allow you to go out in the evenings and play in 
the streets — 

I. Because you will acquire bad habits. You 
will grow rude and vulgar in manners, and 



OBEDIENCE. 73 

quire a relish for pleasures which will destroy 
your usefulness and your happiness. 

II. You will always find in snch scenes bad 
boys, and must hear much indecent and profane 
language, which will corrupt your heart. 

III. You will lose all fondness for the enjoy- 
ment of home, and will be in great danger of 
growing up a dissipated and a worthless man. 

Now, are not these reasons sufficient to induce 
your parents to guard you against such tempta- 
tions ? But perhaps you say, Other parents let 
their children go out and play as much as they 
please every evening. How grateful, then, oughi 
you to be, that you have parents who are so kind 
and faithful that they will preserve you from these 
occasions of sin and sorrow ! They love you too 
well to be willing to see you preparing for an un- 
happy and profitless life. 

It not unfrequently is the case that a girl has 
young associates, who are in the habit of walking 
without protectors in the evening twilight. On 
the evening of some lovely summer's day, as the 
whole western sky is blazing with the golden hue 
of sunset, her companions call at her door, to in- 
vite her to accompany them upon an excursion of 
pleasure. She runs to her parents with her heart 
bounding with joy, in anticipation of the walk, 
They inquire into the plans of the party, and find 
that it will be impossible for them to return from 

Child at Home. J 



74 THE CHILD AT HOME, 

their contemplated expedition before the darkness 
of the evening shall come. As affectionate and 
faithful parents, they fee] that it is not proper or 
safe for them to trust their little daughter in such 
:i situation. They, consequently, cannot consent 
that she should go. She is disappointed in the' 
extreme, and as she sees her friends departing, 
social and happy, she retires to her chamber and 
weeps. The momentary disappointment to her is 
one of the severest she can experience, and she 
can hardly help feeling that her parents are cruel, 
to deprive her of so much anticipated pleasure. 
Her companions go away with the same feelings. 
They make many severe remarks, and really think- 
that this little girl's parents are unkind. Perhaps 
they have a pleasant walk, and all return home in 
safety; and for many days they talk together at 
school of the delightful enjoyments of that evening. 
And this increases the impression on the mind of 
the little girl, that it was unkind in her parents not 
to let her go. 

But, perhaps, as they were returning, they nut 
a drunken man, who staggered in amongst them. 
Terrified, they scatter and run. One, in endea- 
voring to jump over a fence, spoils her gown. 
Another, fleeing in the dark, falls, and sadly bruises 
her face. Another, with loss of bonnet, and with 
dishevelled hair, gains the door of her home. 
And thus is this parly, commenced with high ex* 



OBEDIENCE. 75 

pectations of joy, terminated with fright and tears. 
The parents of the little girl who remained at home, 
knew that they were exposed to all this ; and they 
loved their daughter too well to allow her to be 
placed in such a situation. Was it not kind in them ? 

Perhaps, as they were returning, they met some 
twenty or more of the rudest boys of the village, 
in the midst of their most exciting sports. Here 
are Emma, Maria, and Susan, with their party of 
timid girls, who must force their way through this 
crowd of turbulent and noisy boys. It is already 
dark. Some of the most unmannerly and wicked 
boys of the village are there assembled. They 
are highly excited with their sports. And the 
moment they catch a view of the party of girls, 
they raise a shout, and rush in among them 
reckless and thoughtless. The parents of (he little 
girl who staid at home, knew that she would be ex- 
posed to such scenes; and as they loved their 
daughter, they could not consent that she should go. 
Was it not kind ? 

A few young girls once went on such an even- 
ing walk, intending to return before it was dark. 
But in the height of their enjoyment they forgot 
how rapidly the time was passing, and twilight 
leaving them. But, at last, when they found how 
far they were from home, and how dark it was 
growing, they became quite alarmed, and hastened 
homeward. They, however, got along very well 



JO THE CHILD AT HOMt. 

while they ivcre all together. But when it be- 
came necessary for them to separate, to go to their 
respective homes, and several of them had to go 

alone in the darkness, they felt quite terrified. 

It was necessary for one of these little girls, after 
she had left all her companions, to go nearly a 
quarter of a mile. She set out upon the run, her 
heart beating with fear. She had not proceeded 
far, however, before she heard the loud shouts 
of a mob of young men and boys, directly in the 
street through which she must pass. As she 
drew nearer, the shouts and laughter grew louder 
and more appalling. She hesitated. But what 
could she do ? She must go on. Trembling, she 
endeavored to o;lide through the crowd, when a 
great brutal boy, with a horrid mask on his face 
and a u jack-o'lantern" in his hand, came up before 
her. He threw the glare of the light upon her coun- 
tenance, and stared her full in the face. 4k Here i* 
my w r ife," said he, and tried to draw her arm into 
his. A loud shout from the multitude of boys echo- 
ed through the darkened air. Hardly knowing 
what she did, she pressed through the crowd, and, 
breathless with fright, arrived at her home. And 1 
will assure you she did not wish to take any more 
evening walks without a protector. From that time 
afterwards she was careful to be under her father's 
roof before it was dark. 

Now can you think that your father or mother are 



OBEDIENCE. 77 

unkind, because they are unwilling to have you 
placed in such a situation? And when they are 
doing all that they can to make you happy, ought 
you not to be grateful, and by a cheerful counte- 
nance, and ready obedience, to try to reward them 
for their love % 

It is the duty of all children to keep in mind that 
their parents know what is best. And when they 
refuse to gratify your wishes, you should remem- 
ber that their object is to do you good. That obedi- 
ence which is prompt and cheerful, is the only obe- 
dience which is acceptable to them, or well-pleasing 
to God. A great many cases will occur in which 
you will wish to do that which your parents will 
not approve. If you do not, in such cases, plea- 
santly and readily yield to their wishes, you are un- 
grateful and disobedient. 

Neither is it enough that you should obev their 
expressed commands. You ought to try to do 
every thing which you think will give them plea- 
sure, whether they tell you to do it or not. A good 
child will seek for opportunities to make his parents 
happy. A little girl, for instance, has some work 
to do. She knows that if she does it well and quick, 
it will gratify her mother. Now, if she be a good 
girl, she will not wait for her mother's orders, but 
will, of her own accord, improve her time, that she 
may exhibit the work to her mother sooner and 
more nicely done than she expected. 
7* 



78 THL CHILD AT BOMB. 

Perhaps her mother it sick. Hei aflbctionate 
daughter will not wait foi hex mother to expreat her 

wishes. She will try to anticipate thnn. She will 

walk softly around the chamber, arranging every 

thing in cheerful order. She will adjust the clothet 
of the bed, that her mother may lie ai comfortably 

as possible. And she will watch all her mother's 
movements, that she may learn what things she 
needs before she asks for them. Such will be the 
conduct of an affectionate and obedient child. 1 was 
once called to see a poor woman who was wry B 
She was a widow, and in poverty, fter only com- 
panion and only earthly reliance was her daughter. 
As I entered the humble dwelling of this poor wo- 
man, I saw her bolstered up in the bed, with her 
pale countenance emaciated with pain, and every 
thing about the room proclaiming the most abject 
poverty. Her daughter sat sewing at the head of 
the bed, watching every want of her mother, and 
active with her needle. The perfect neatness of the 
room told how faithful was the daughter in the dis- 
charge of her painful and arduous duties. But her 
own slender form and consumptive countenance 
showed that by toil and watching she was almost 
worn out herself. This noble girl, by night and by 
day, with unwearied attention, endeavored to allevi- 
ate the excruciating pains of her afflicted parent. I 
could not look upon her but with admiration, in see- 
ing the devotedrj?35 with which she watched ever* 



OBEDIENCE. 79 

movement of her mother. How many wealthy pa 
rents would give all they possess, to be blessed 
with such a child ! For months this devoted girl 
had watched around her mother by night and by 
day, with a care which seemed never to be weary. 
You could see by the movement of her eye, and by 
the expression of her countenance, how full her 
heart was of sympathy. She did not wait for her 
mother to tell her what to do, but was upon the 
watch all the time to find out what would be a com- 
fort to her. This is what I call obedience. It is 
that obedience which God in heaven approves and 
loves. 

I called often upon this poor widow, and always 
with increasing admiration of this devoted child. 
One morning, as I entered the room, I saw the 
mother lying upon the bed on the floor, with her 
head in the lap of her daughter. She was breathing 
short and heavy in the struggles of death. The 
tears were rolling down the pale cheeks of her 
daughter, as she pressed her hand upon the brow 
of her dying mother. The hour of death had just 
arrived, and the poor mother, in the triumphs of 
Christian faith, with faint and faltering accents, was 
imploring God's blessing upon her dear daughter. 
It was a most affecting farewell. The mother, while 
thus expressing her gratitude to God for the kind- 
ness of her beloved child, breathed her last. And 
angels must have looked upon that humble abode, 



SO TBI CHILD AT 1IO.MK. 

and upon that affecting Kent, with emotions of plea- 
sure, which could hardly be exceeded by any thing 
else which the world could presmt. that all 
children would feel the gratitude which this girl 
felt for a mother's early love! Then would the 
world be divested of half its sorrows, and of half its 
sins. This is the kind of obedience which every 
child should cultivate. You should not only ilo 
whatever your parents tell you to do, with cheerful- 
ness and alacrity, but you should be obedient to 
their wishes. You should be watching for oppor- 
tunities to give them pleasure. You should, at all 
times, and under all circumstances, do every thing 
in your power to relieve them from anxiety and to 
make them happy. Then can you hope for the ap- 
probation of your God, and your heart will be filled 
with a joy which the ungrateful child can never 
feel. You can reflect with pleasure upon your con- 
duct. When your parents are in the grave, you will 
feel no remorse of conscience harrowing your soul 
for your past unkindness. And when you die your- 
selves, you can anticipate a happy meeting with your 
parents, in that heavenly home, where sin and sor- 
row, and sickness and death, can never come. 

God has, in almost every case, connected suffer- 
ing with sin. And there are related many cases in 
which he has, in this world, most signally punished 
ungrateful children. I read, a short time since, an 
account of an old man, who had a drunken and 



OBEDIENCE. 81 

brutal son. He would abuse his aged father with- 
out mercy. One day, he, in a passion, knocked him 
flat upon the floor, and, seizing him by his gray 
hairs, dragged him across the room to the threshold 
of the door, to cast him out. The old man, with his 
tremulous voice, cried out to his unnatural son, " It 
is enough — it is enough. God is just. When I was 
young, I dragged my own father in the same way ; 
and now God is giving me the punishment I de 
serve." 

Sometimes you will see a son who will not be 
obedient to his mother. He will have his own way, 
regardless of his mother's feelings. He has grown 
up to be a stout and stubborn boy, and now the un- 
grateful wretch will, by his misconduct, break the 
heart of that very mother, who, for months and 
years, watched over him with a care which knew 
no weariness. I call him a wretch, for I can hardly 
conceive of more enormous iniquity. That boy, or 
that young man, who does not treat his affectionate 
mother with kindness and respect, is worse than I 
can find language to describe. Perhaps you say, 
your mother is at times unreasonable. Perhaps she 
is. But what of that ? You have been unreasonab e 
ten thousand times, and she has borne with ycu 
and loved you. And even if your mother be at times 
unreasonable in her requirements, I want to know 
with what propriety you find fault with it. Is she 
to bear with all your cries in infancy, and all your 



82 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

fretfulnesfl in childhood, and all your ingratitude 

and wants till you arrive at years of discretion, and 
then, because she wishes you to do some little thing 
which does not exactly meet your views, are you to 
turn upon her like a viper and sting her to the heart ? 
The time was, when you was a little infant, your 
mother brought paleness to her own cheek, and 
weakness to her own frame, that she might give 
you support. You were sick, and in the cold winter 
night she would sit lonely by the fire, denying her- 
self rest that she might lull her babe to sleep. You 
would cry with pain, and hour after hour she would 
walk the floor, carrying you in her arms, till her 
arms seemed ready to drop, and her limbs would 
hardly support her, through excess of weariness. 
The bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite 
her to go out for health and enjoyment, but she 
would deny herself the pleasure, and stay at home 
to take care of you, her helpless babe. Her friends 
would solicit her to indulge in the pleasures of the 
social evening party, but she would refuse for your 
sake, and, in the solitude of her chamber, she would 
pass weeks and months watching all your wants. 
Thus have years passed away in which you have 
received nothing but kindness from her hands ; and 
can you be so hard-hearted, so ungrateful, as now 
to give her one moment of unnecessary pain? If 
she have faults, can you not bear with them, when 
she has so long borne with you ? Oh, if you knew 



OBEDIENCE. S3 

but the hundredth part of what she has suffered and 
endured for your sake, you could not, could not be 
such a wretch as to requite her with ingratitude. A 
boy who has one particle of generosity glowing ia 
his bosom, will cling to his mother with an affec- 
tion which life alone can extinguish. He will never 
let her have a single want which he can prevent. 
And when he grows to be a man, he will give her 
the warmest seat by his fire-side, and the choicest 
food upon his table. If necessary, he will deprive 
himself of comforts, that he may cheer her declin- 
ing years. He will prove, by actions which cannot 
be misunderstood, that he feels a gratitude for a mo- 
ther's love, which shall never, never leave him. 
And when she goes down to the grave in death, he 
will bedew her grave with the honorable tears of 
manly feeling. The son who does not feel thus, is 
unworthy of a mother's love : the frown of his of- 
fended Maker must he upon him, and he must ren- 
der to Him an awful account for his ungrateful 
conduct. 

It is, if possible, stranger still, that any daughter 
can forget a mother's care. You are always at home. 
You see your mother's solicitude. You are familiar 
with her heart. If you ever treat your mother with 
unkind ness, remember that the time may come when 
your own heart will be broken by the misconduct of 
those who will be as dear to you as your mother's 
children are to her. And you may ask yourself 



M THE CHILD AT HOME. 

whether you would be pleased with an exhibition 
of ungrateful feeling from a child whom you had 
loved and cherished with the tendered care. God 
may reward you, even in this world, according to 
your deeds. And if he does not, he certainly will in 
the world to come. A day of judgment is at hand, 
and the ungrateful child has as fearful an account to 
render as any one who will stand at (hat bar. 

I have just spoken to you of the irrateful girl who 
took such good care of her poor sick mother. When 
that good girl dies, and meets her mother in heaven, 
what a happy meeting it will be ! With how much 
joy will she reflect upon her dutifulness ac a child ! 
And as they dwell together again in the celestial 
mansions, sorrow and sighing will for ever flee 
away. If you wish to be happy here or hereafter, 
honor your father and your mother. Let love's pure 
flame burn in your heart and animate your life. Be 
brave, and fear not to do your duty. Be magnani- 
mous, and do more for your parents than they re- 
quire or expect. Resolve that you will do every 
thing in your power to make them happy, and you 
will be blest as a child, and useful and respected in 
your maturer years. Oh, how lovely is that son or 
daughter who has a grateful heart, and who will 
rather die than give a mother sorrow ! Such a one 
is not only loved by all upon earth, but by the an- 
gels above, and by our Father in heaven. 

It may assist you a little to estimate your obliga- 



OBEDIENCE. 85 

tions to your parents, to inquire what would become 
of you if your parents should refuse to take care of 
you any longer. You, at times, perhaps, feel unwil- 
ling to obey them : suppose they should say, 

" Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to 
obey us, you may go away from home, and take 
care of yourself. We cannot be at the trouble and 
expense of taking care of you unless you feel some 
gratitude.'' 

" Well," perhaps you would say, " let me have 
my cloak and- bonnet, and I will go immediately." 

• f Your cloak and bonnet /" your mother would 
reply. " The cloak and bonnet are not yours, but 
your father's. He bought them and paid for them. 
Why do you call them yours?" 

You might possibly reply, after thinking a mo- 
ment, " They are mine because you gave them 
to me." 

" No, my child," your mother would say, " we 
have only let you have them to wear. You never 
have paid a cent for them. You have not even paid 
us for the use of them. We wish to keep them for 
those of our children who are grateful for our kind- 
ness. Even the clothes you now have on are not 
yours. We will, however, give them to you ; and 
now suppose you should go, and see how you can 
get along in taking care of yourself." 

You rise to leave the house without any bonnet 
or cloak. But your mother says, " Stop one moment. 

Child at Home. q 



8f) THF. CHILD AT HOME. 

Is there not an account to be settled before you 
leave 1 We have now clothed and boarded you for 
ten years. The trouble and expense, at the least 
calculation, amount to two dollars a week. Indeed, 
I do not suppose that you could have got any one 
else to have taken you so cheap. Your board, for 
ten years, at two dollars a week, amounts to one 
thousand and forty dollars. Are you under no obli- 
gation to us for all this trouble and expense?" 

You hang down your head and do not know 
what to say. What can you say % You have no 
money. Y'ou cannot pay them. 

Your mother, after waiting a moment for an an 
swer, continues, " In many cases, when a person 
does not pay what is justly due, he is sent to jail. 
We, however, will be particularly kind to you, and 
wait awhile. Perhaps you can, by working for 
fifteen or twenty years, and by being very economi- 
cal, earn enough to pay us. But let me see : the in- 
terest of the money will be over sixty dollars a year. 
Oh, no ! it is out of the question. You probably 
could not earn enough to pay us in your whole life. 
We never shall be paid for the time, expense, and 
care, we have devoted to our ungrateful daughter. 
We hoped she would love us, and obey us, and thus 
repay. But it seems she prefers to be ungrateful and 
disobedient. Good by. 

You open the door and go out. It is cold and 
windv. Shivering with the cold, and without mo- 



OBEDIENCE. 87 

ney, you are at once a beggar, and must peiish in 
the streets, unless some one takes pity on you. 

You go, perhaps, to the house of a friend, and 
ask if they will allow you to live with them. 

They at once reply, " We have so many children 
of our own, that we cannot afford to take you, un- 
less you will pay for your board and clothing." 

You go again out into the street, cold, hungry, 
and friendless. The darkness of the night is com 
ing on ; you have no money to purchase a supper, 
or night's lodging. Unless you can get some em- 
ployment, or find some one who will pity you, you 
must lie down upon the hard ground, and perish 
with hunger and with cold. 

Perhaps some benevolent man sees you as he is 
going home in the evening, and takes you to the 
overseers of the poor, and says. " Here is a little va- 
grant girl I found in the streets. We must send 
the poor little thing to the poor house, or she will 
starve to death." 

You are carried to the poor house. There you 
find a very different home from your father's. 
You are dressed in the coarsest garments. You 
have the meanest food, and are compelled to be obe- 
dient, and to do the most servile work. 

Now, suppose, while you are in the poor house, 
some kind gentleman and lady should come and 
say, " We will take this little girl, and give her food 
&nd clothes for nothing. We will take her into our 



S3 Till: ( HI M> AT I10MK. 

own parlor, and give'her a chair by out own plea, 
aant fireside. We will buy every thing for her that 
she needs. We \\ ill hire ; We 

will do every thiqg 111 our power to make her hap- 
py, and will not ask for on-; cent ofpay in return." 

What should you think of such kindness? And 
what should you think of yourself, if you could go 
to their parlor, and receive their bounty, and vet be 
ungrateful and disobedient! Would not a child 
who could thus requite such love, be deserving of 
universal detestation ? But all this your parents are 
doing, and for years have been doing for you. They 
pay for the lire that warms you; for the house that 
shelters you; for the clothes that cover you; for the 
food that supports you ! They watch over your bed 
in sickness, and provide for your instruction and 
enjoyment when in health ! Your parents do all 
this without money and without price. Now, when- 
ever you feel ill humored, or disposed to murmur at 
any of their requirements, just look a moment and 
see how the account stands. Inquire what would be 
the consequence, if they should refuse to take care 
of you. 

The child who does not feel grateful for all this 
kindness, must be more unfeeling than the brutes. 
How can you refrain from doing every thing in 
your power to make those happy who have loved 
you so long, and have conferred upon you so many 
favors ! If vou have anv thing noble or generous 



OBEDIENCE. 8S 

in your nature, it must be excited by a parent's love. 
You sometimes see a child who receives all these 
favors as though they were her due. She appears 
to have no consciousness of obligation ; no heart of 
gratitude. Such a child is a disgrace to human na- 
ture. Even the very fowls of the air, and cattle of 
the fields, love their parents. They put to shame 
the ungrateful child. 

You can form no conception of that devotedness 
of love which your mother cherishes for you. She 
is willing to suffer almost every thing to save you 
from pain. She will, to protect you, face death in 
its most terrific form. An English gentleman tells 
the following affecting story, to show how ardently 
a mother loves her child. 

"I was once going, in my gig, up the hill in 
the village of Frankford, near Philadelphia when 
a little girl about two years old, who had toddled 
away from a small house, was lying basking in 
the sun, in the middle of the road. About two 
hundred yards before I got to the child, the teams 
of three wagons, five big horses in each, the dri- 
vers of which had stopped to drink at a tavern 
at the brow of the hill, started off, and came 
nearly abreast, galloping down the road. I got my 
gig off the road as speedily as I could, but expect- 
ed to see the poor child crushed to pieces. A 
young man, a journeyman carpenter, who was 
shingling a shed by the road side, seeing the child, 



90 



Tin: CHILD at home. 



and seeing the dangejr, though a stranger to the 
parents, jumped from the top of the shed, ran into 

the road, and snatched Up the child from scarcely 

an mch before the hoof of the leading horse* The 
horse's leg knocked him down; bill he, catching 

the child by its clothes, flun k OUt of the 

way of the other horses, and saved himself by 
rolling back with surprising agility. The motht-r 
of the child, who had apparently been washing, 
seeing the teams coming, and see situation 

of the child, rushed out, and, catching up the child, 
just as the carpenter had flung it back, and hugging 
it in her arms, uttered a shriek', such as I never 
heard before, never heard since, and, I hope, shall 
never hear again ; and then she dropped down as 
if perfectly dead. By the application of the usual 
means, she was restored, however, in a little while, 
and I, being about to depart, asked the carpenter if 
he were a married man, and whether he were a re- 
lation of the parents of the child. II" said he was 
neither. ' Well, then,' said I, ' you merit the grati- 
tude of every father and mother in the world, and I 
will show you mine by giving you what 1 have, — 
pulling out the nine or ten dollars which 1 had in 
my pocket. ' No, I thank you, sir,' said he, 4 I have 
only done what it was my duty to do.' 

" Bravery, disinterestedness, and maternal affec- 
tion surpassing these, it is impossible to imagine. 
The mother was going right in amongst the feet of 



OBEDIENCE. 91 

these powerful and wild horses, and amongst the 
wheels of the wagons. She had no thought for 
herself; no feeling of fear for her own life; her 
shriek was the sound of inexpressible joy, joy too 
great for her to support herself under. " 

Now, can you conceive a more ungrateful wretch, 
than that boy would be, if he should grow up, not 
to love or obey his mother 1 She was willing to die 
for him. She was willing to run directly under the 
feet of those ferocious horses, that she might save 
his life. And if he has one particle of generosity in 
his bosom, he will do every thing in his power to 
make her happy. 

But your mother loves you as well as did that 
mother love her child. She is as willing to expose 
herself to danger and to death. And can you ever 
bear the thought of causing grief to her whose love 
is so strong ; whose kindness is so great ? It does 
appear to me that the generous-hearted boy, who 
thinks of these things, will resolve to be his mo- 
ther's joy and blessing. 

A few years ago a child was lost in one of those 
vast plains in the west, called prairies. A gentleman 
who was engaged in the search for the child, thus 
describes the scene. It forcibly shows the strength 
of a mother's love. 

"In the year 1821 I was stationed on the Mad 
River circuit. You know there are extensive prai- 
ries in that part of the state. In places, there are no 



92 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

dwellings within miles of each Other; and animals 
of prey are often seen ther& One evening, late in 

autumn, a few of the neighbors were assembled 

around me, in one of those solitary dwellings, and 
We had got well engaged in the worship of God, 
when it was announced that the child of a widow 
was lost in the prairie. It was cold: the wind blew; 
and some rain was falling. r l ne poor woman was 
in agony, and our meeting was broken up All pre- 
pared to go in search of the lost child. The com- 
pany understood the business better than 1 did, for 
they had been bred in those extensive barrens ; and 
occurrences like the present are, probably, not un- 
frequent among them. They equipped themselves 
with lanterns and torches, for it was quite dark ; 
and tin horns, to give signals to different parts of the 
company, when they should become widely sepa- 
rated. For my part, I thought duty required that I 
should take charge of the unhappy mother. She 
was nearly frantic ; and as time permitted her to 
view her widowed and childless condition, and the 
circumstances of the probable death of her child, her 
misery seemed to double upon her. She took my 
arm ; the company divided into parties ; and, taking 
different directions, we commenced the search. The 
understanding was, that, when the child should be 
found, a certain wind of the horn should be made, 
and that all who should hear it should repeat the sig- 
nal. In this way all the company would receive the 
information. 



OBEDIENCE. qc* 

" The prospect of finding a lost child in those ex- 
tensive prairies, would, at any time, be sufficiently 
discouraging. The difficulty must be greatly in- 
creased by a dark, rainy night. We travelled many 
miles, and to a late hour. At length we became sa- 
tisfied that further search would be unavailing ; and 
all but the mother determined to return home. It 
was an idea she could not, for a moment, endure. 
She would hear of nothing but further search. Her 
strength, at last, began to fail her, and I prevailed 
on her to return to her abode. As she turned her 
face from further search, and gave up her child as 
lost, her misery was almost too great for endurance. 
* My child,' said she, * has been devoured by a wild 
beast ; his little limbs have been torn asunder ; and 
his blood been drunk by the hideous monster,' — -and 
the idea was agony. As she clung to my arm, it 
seemed as if her heart-strings would break. At times 
I had almost to support her in my arms, to prevent 
her falling to the earth. 

" As we proceeded on our way back, I thought 1 
heard, at a great distance, the sound of a horn. We 
stopped, and listened ; it was repeated. It was the 
concerted signal. The child was found. And what 
were the feelings of the mother !" Language can- 
not describe them. Such is the strength of maternal 
affection. And can a child be so hard-hearted as not 
to love a mother ? Is there any thing w r hich can be 
more ungrateful than to grieve one who loves you 



M THE CUILD AT HOME. 

so ardently, and who has done so much for you ? 

If there be any crime which m the Bight of (lot! 

is greater than all others, it appears to me it must 

he the ;ihuse of parents. If the spirit of a demon 
dwells in any human breast, it must he in that 
breast which is thankless for parental favors, and 
which can requite that love, which watched over 
our infancy and protected our helpless years, with 
ingratitude and disrespect. 



CHAPTER V. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 



In this chapter I shall take up the subject of re- 
ligion. That you may understand your duties, it is 
important that you should first understand your own 
character in the sight of God. I can, perhaps, make 
this plain to you by the following illustration : 

A few years since a ship sailed from England to 
explore the Northern Ocean. As it was a voyage 
of no common danger to face the storms and the 
tempests of those icy seas, a crew of experienced 
seamen was obtained, and placed under the guidance 
of a commander of long-tried skill. As the ship 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 95 

sailed from an English port, in pleasant weather 
and with favorable breezes, all was harmony on 
board, and every man was obedient to the lawful 
commander. As weeks passed away, and they 
pressed forward on the wide waste of waters, there 
were occasional acts of neglect of duty. Still the 
commander retained his authority. No one ventured 
to refuse to be in subjection to him. But as the ship 
advanced farther and farther into those unexplored 
regions, new toils and dangers stared them in the 
face. The cold blasts of those wintry regions chilled 
their limbs. Mountains of ice, dashed about by the 
tempests, threatened destruction to the ship and to 
the crew. As far as the eye could reach, a dreary 
view of chilling waves and of floating ice warned 
them of dangers, from which no earthly power could 
extricate them. The ship was far away from home, 
and in regions which had been seldom, if ever, seen 
by mortal eyes. The boldest Avere at times appalled 
by the dangers, both seen and unseen, which were 
clustering around them. Under these circumstances 
the spirit of revolt broke out among that ship's crew, 
They resolved that they would no longer be in sub- 
jection to their commander. They rose together in 
rebellion ; deprived him of his authority, and took 
the control of the ship into their own hands. They 
then placed their captain in an open boat, and throw- 
ing in to him a few articles of provision, they turned 
him adrift upon that wide and cheerless ocean, and 



96 THE CHILD AT HOMF 

he never waa heard of more Appointing - one of 
their number as commander, ihey turned the ship 

in a different direction, ami regulated all their move- 
ments by their own pleasure. After this revolt, 
things went on pretty much as before. They had 

deprived their lawful commander of his authority, 
and elevated another to occupy his place. A stran- 
ger would", perhaps, hi rial dif- 
ference, after this c in the conduct of the crew. 
The preservation of their own Uvea rendered it ne- 
cessary that the established rulea of naval discipline 
should be observed. By night the watches were re- 
gularly set and relieved as before. The helmsman 
performed his accustomed duty, and the sails were 
spread to the winds, or furled in the tempest, as oc- 
casion required. But still they were all guilty of 
mutiny. They had refused to submit to their lawful 
commander. Consequently, by the laws of their 
country, they were all condemned to he hung. The 
faithful discharge of the necessary duties of each day 
after their revolt, did not in the least free them from 
blame. The crime of which they were guilty, and 
for which they deserved the severest punishment, 
was the refusal to submit to authority. 

Now, our situation is very similar to that of this 
rebellious crew. Tin- Bible tells us that we have 
said in our hearts that M we will not have God to 
reign over us. : ' Instead of living in entire obedience 
to him, we have chosen to serve ourselves. The 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 97 

accusation which God has against us, is not that we 
occasionally transgress his laws, but that we refuse 
to regard him, at all times and under all circum- 
stances, as our ruler. Sometimes children think 
that if they do not tell lies, and if they obey their 
parents, it is all that God requires of them. This, 
however, is by no means the case. God requires of 
us not only to do our duty to our parents, and to 
those around us, but also to love him with our most 
ardent affection, and to endeavor at all times to do 
that which will be pleasing to him. While the mu- 
tinous seamen had command of the ship, they might 
have been kind to one another ; they might, with 
unwearied care and attention, have watched over the 
sick. They might, with the utmost fidelity, have 
conformed to the rules of naval discipline, seeing 
that every rope was properly adjusted, and that 
cleanliness and order should pervade every depart- 
ment. But notwithstanding all this, their guilt was 
undiminished. They had refused obedience to their 
commander, and for this they were exposed to the 
penalty of that law which doomed them to death. 
It is the same with us. We may be kind to one 
another ; we may be free from guile ; we may be 
faithful in the discharge of the ordinary duties of 
life; yet, if we are not in subjection to God, we are 
justly exposed to the penalty of his law. What would 
have been thought of one of those mutinous seamen, 
if, when brought before the bar of his country, be 

Child at Horn© 9 



98 ■ THE CHILD AT IIOMF 

had pleaded in his defence, that, after t tie revolt, ho 
had been faithful to his new commander 1 Would 

liny person have regarded that M an extenuation of 
his sin? No! He would at once have been led to 
the scaffold. And the voice of an indignant public 

would have said that he suffered justly for his crime. 

Let us imagine one of the mutineers in a court 
of justice, and urging the following excuses to the 
judge. 

Judge. — You have been accused of mutiny, and 
are found guilty; and now what have you to say 
why sentence of death should not be pronounced 
against you? 

Criminal. — To be sure I did help place the cap- 
tain in the boat and turn him adrift; but then I was 
no worse than the others. I did only as the rest did. 

Judge. — The fact that others were equally guilty, 
is no excuse for you. You are to be judged by your 
own conduct. 

Criminal. — Well, it is very unjust that I should 
be punished, for I was one of the hardest-working 
men on board the ship. No one can say that they 
ever saw me idle, or that I ever refused to perform 
any duty, however dangerous. 

Judge. — You are not on trial for idleness, but for 
refusing obedience to your cum man 

Criminal . — I was a very moral man. No one ever 
heard me use a profane word : and in my conduct 
and actions, I was civil to all my shipmates. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 99 

Judge. — You are not accused of profanity, or of 
impoliteness. The charge for which you are ar- 
raigned, is that you have rebelled against lawful 
authority. Of this you have been proved to be 
guilty; and for this I must now proceed to pass the 
penalty of the law. 

Criminal. — But, may it please your honor, I was 
% very benevolent man. One night one of my ship- 
mates was sick, and I watched all the night long at 
his hammock. And after we placed the captain in 
the boat, and cut him adrift, I threw in a bag of bis- 
cuit, that he might have some food. 

Judge.— \i your benevolence had shown itself in 
defending your commander, and in obedience to his 
authority, you might now be rewarded ; but you are 
guilty of mutiny, and must be hung. 

Criminal. — There was no man on board the ship 
more useful than I was. And after we had turned 
the captain adrift, we must all have perished if it had 
not been for me, for no one else understood naviga- 
tion. I have a good education, and did every thing I 
could to instruct my shipmates, and to make them 
skilful seamen. 

Judge. — You are then the most guilty of the whole 
rebellious crew. You knew your duty better than 
the rest, and are more inexcusable in not being faith 
ful. It appears by your own confession, that your 
education was good ; that your influence was exten- 
sive; and that you had been taught those duties 



100 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

which man owes his fellow man. This does not ex- 
tenuate, but increases your guilt. Many of your 
shipmates were ignorant, and were confirmed in 
their rebellion by your example. They had never 
been taught those moral and social duties which had 
been impressed upon your mind. That vou could 
have been so ungrateful, so treacherous, so cruel as 
to engage in this revolt, justly exposes you to the 
severest penalty of the law. I therefore proceed to 
pronounce upon you the sentence which your crimes 
deserve. You will be led from this place to the 
deepest and strongest dungeon of the prison ; there 
to be confined till you are led to the gallows, and 
there to be hung by the neck till you are dead ; and 
may God have mercy upon your soul. 

Now, who would not declare that this sentence is 
just? And who does not see the absurdity of the ex- 
cuses which the guilty man offered ? 

So it is with you, my young reader. It is your 
duty, at all times, to be obedient to God. The 
charge which God brings against us, is, that we 
have refused to obey him. For this we deserve 
that penalty which God has threatened against re- 
bellion. If we love our parents ever so ardently, 
it will not save us, unless we also love God. If we 
are ever so kind to those around us, it will not se- 
cure God's approbation, unless we are also obedi- 
ent to him. If our conduct is so correct that no 
one can accuse us of what is called an immoral act, 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 101 

it will be of no avail, unless we are also living with 
faith in the promises of God, and with persevering 
efforts to do his will. And we shall be as foolish as 
was the guilty mutineer, if we expect that any such 
excuses will save us from the penalty of his law. 

We cannot, by any fidelity in the discharge of the 
common duties of life, atone for the neglect to love 
and serve our Maker. We have broken away from 
his authority. We follow our own inclinations, and 
are obedient to the directions of others, rather than 
to those of our Maker. The fact is, that the duties 
we owe God and our fellow men are not to be sepa- 
rated. God expects the child in the morning to ac- 
knowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and to 
pray for assistance to do that which is right, dur- 
ing all the hours of the day. And he expects you, 
when the evening comes, to thank him for all his 
goodness, and solemnly to promise, all your days, 
to be obedient to his authority. You must not 
only love your parents, but you must also love your 
God. You must try to have your words and your 
thoughts pure, and all your conduct holy. Now, 
when you look back upon your past lives, and when 
you examine your present feelings, do you not see 
that you have not obeyed God in all your ways 1 
Not only have you had wicked thoughts, and at times 
been disobedient to your parents, but you have not 
made it the great object of your life to serve your 
Maker. 

9* 



102 THK CHILI) AT IIOML 

God now desires to bare you obedient to him. 

He loves you, and wishes to tee you happv. He 

has for this purpose sent his Son into the world to 
die for your sins, and to lead you to piety and pence. 

The Savior now asks you to repent of sin and love 
him, that, when you die, you may bfl received to 
heaven, and be happy for ever. You perhaps remem- 
ber the passage of Scripture found in Rev. >j : ~, 

44 Behold, I stand at the door, and knock ; if any man 
hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to 
him, and sup with him, and he with me. : I)v this 
he expresses his desire that we should receive him 
to our hearts. 

One of the most affecting scenes described by the 
pen of the most eloquent of writers, is, that of an 
aged father driven from his home by ungrateful and 
hard-hearted children. The broken-hearted man is 
represented as standing by the door of his own house, 
in a dark and tempestuous night, with his gray locks 
streaming in the wind, and his head unprotected to 
the fury of the storm. There he stands, drenched 
with the rain, and shivering with the cold. But the 
door is barred, and the shutters are closed. His 
daughters hear the trembling voice of their aged pa- 
rent, but refuse him admission. Their flinty hearts 
remain unmoved. The darkness increases; the tem- 
pest racres ; the rain falls in torrents, and the wind 
howls most fearfully. The voice of their father 
grows feebler and feebler, as the storm spends its 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH, 103 

fury upon him. But nothing can touch the sympa- 
thies of his unnatural children. They will not open 
the door to him. At last, grief, and the pangs of 
disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He 
looks at the black and lowering clouds above him, 
and, in the phrensy of his distracted mind, invites 
the increasing fury of the storm. And still those 
wretched children refuse to receive him to their fire- 
side, but leave him to wander in the darkness and 
the cold. 

The representation of this scene, as described by 
the pen of Shakspeare, has brought tears into mil- 
lions of eyes. The tragedy of King Lear and his 
wretched daughters is known throughout the civi- 
lized world. What heart is not indignant at such 
treatment ? Who does not abhor the conduct of these 
unnatural children? 

Our blessed Savior represents himself as taking a 
similar attitude before the hearts of his children. He 
has presented himself at the door of your heart, and 
can you refuse him admission? '* Behold," says he, 
" I stand at the door and knock." But we, with a 
hardness of heart which has triumphed over greater 
blessings, and is consequently more inexcusable than 
that of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to love 
him, and to receive him as our friend. He entreats 
admission. He asks to enter and be with you and 
you with him, that you may be happy. And there 
he has stood for days, and months, and years, and 



104 THI CHILD AT IIDMK. 

you receive him not. Could we see our own con- 
duct in the light in which we behold the conduct of 
others, we should be confounded with the sense of 
our guilt. 

Is there a child who reads this book, who has not 
at times felt the importance of loving the Savior V 
When you felt these serious impressions, Christ was 
pleading for admission to your heart. You have, 
perhaps, been sick, and feared that you were about 
to die. And, oh, how ardentiy did you then wish 
that the Savior were your friend ! Perhaps you 
have seen a brother or a sister die: you wept over 
your companion, as her cheek daily grew more pale, 
and she drew nearer and nearer to death. And when 
she ceased to breathe, and her limbs were cold and 
lifeless, you wept as though your heart would break. 
And when you saw her placed in the coffin and car- 
ried to the grave, how earnestly did you desire to be 
prepared to die yourself! Oh, how did the world 
seem then to you ! This was the way the Savior 
took to reach your heart. When on earth, he said, 
14 Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid 
them not." And now he endeavors, in many ways, 
to induce you to turn to him. Sometimes he makes 
you happy, that his goodness may excite your love. 
When he sees that in happiness you are most prone 
to forget him, he sends sorrow and trouble, under 
which your spirits sink, and this world appear* 
gloomy, and you are led to look forward to a hap- 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 105 

pier one to come. And does it not seem very un- 
grateful that you should resist all this kindness and 
care, and continue to refuse to submit yourself to 
him? You think the daughters of King Lear were 
very cruel. Indeed they were ; but not so cruel as 
you. Their father had been kind to them, but not so 
kind as your Savior has been to you. He stood long 
at the door and knocked, but not so long as the Sa- 
vior has stood at the door of your heart. It is in vain 
that we look to find an instance of ingratitude equal 
to that manifested by the sinner who rejects the 
Savior. And it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that 
any child could be so hard-hearted. 

It is strange that any person can resist the love 
which God has manifested for us. He has sent angels 
with messages of mercy, arid invitations to his home 
in heaven. He sent his Son to die that we might 
be saved from everlasting sorrow. He has provided 
a world of beauty and of glory, far surpassing any 
thing we can conceive, to which he invites us, and 
where he will make us happy for ever. And we are 
informed that all the angels in heaven are so much 
interested in our welfare, that " there is joy in the 
presence of the angels of God over one sinner that 
repenteth." It is indeed wonderful that the holy and 
happy angels above should feel so deep an interest 
in our concerns. But, oh, how surpassingly strange. 
it is, that we feel so little for ourselves ! 

It is kind in God that he will not let the wicked 



10G THE CHILD AT HOME 

enter heaven. lie loves his holy children there too 
well, to allow the wicked to enter and trouble them, 
and destroy their peace. There was a little girl once, 
who had a party of her companions to spend the 
evening with her. They were all playing very hap- 
pily in the parlor, when a drunken man happened 
to go by. As he heard their voices, he came stag- 
gering up to the door, and tried to get in. All the 
girls were very much frightened, for fear the de- 
graded wretch would get into the parlor. But the 
gentleman of the house told them not to be fright- 
ened. He assured them that the man should not 
come in, and though it was a cold winter's night, he 
went out and drove him away. Now, was not this 
gentleman kind thus to protect these children ? 

Suppose a wicked man, or a lost spirit, should go 
to the gates of heaven and try to enter there. Do you 
suppose that God would let him in ? Would not God 
be as kind to the angels as an earthly father to his 
earthly children ? Every angel in heaven would cry 
to God for protection, if they should see the wicked 
approaching that happy world. And God shows 
his love, by declaring that the wicked shall never 
enter there. 

41 Those holy gates for ever bar 
Pollution, mii and shame; 
None shall obtain admittance there, 
But followers of the Lamb." 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 107 

It is not because God is unkind and cruel that he 
shuts up the wicked in the world of wo. He does 
this because he loves his children, and, like a kind 
father, determines to protect them from oppression 
and sorrow. The bright wings of the angel glitter 
in the heavenly world. Pure joy glows in the bo- 
soms of the blest. Love unites them all, as they 
swell their songs, and take their flight. In their 
home, the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are for ever at rest. 

A few years since, there was a certain family 
which was united and happy, The father and mo- 
ther looked upon the children who surrounded their 
fireside, and beheld them all virtuous in their con- 
duct, and affectionate towards one another. Their 
evening sports went on harmoniously, and those 
children were preparing, in their beloved home, for 
future virtues and usefulness. But, at last, one of 
the sons became dissipated. He went on from step 
to step in vice, till he became a degraded wretch. 
His father and mother wept over his sins, and did 
every thing in their power to reclaim him. All was 
in vain. Every day he grew worse. His brothers 
and sisters found all the happiness of their home de- 
stroyed by his wickedness. The family was dis- 
graced by him, and they were all in sorrow and 
tears. One evening- he was brought home so intoxi- 
cated that he was apparently lifeless. His poor bro- 
ken-hearted mother saw him conveyed in this dis* 



108 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

graceful condition to his bed. At another time, when 
his parents were absent, he came home, in the even- 
ing, in a state of intoxication bordering on phrensy. 
He raved about the house like a madman. He swore 
the most shocking oaths. Enraged with one of his 
sisters, he seized a chair, and would have struck 
her, perhaps, a fatal blow if she had not escaped by 
flight. The parents of this child felt that such things 
could no longer be permitted, and told him that, if 
there was not an immediate reformation in his con- 
duct, they should forbid him to enter their house. 
But entreaties and warnings were alike in vain. He 
continued his disgraceful career. His father, per- 
ceiving that amendment was hopeless, and that he 
was, by remaining at home, imbittering every mo- 
ment of the family, and loading them with disgrace, 
sent his son to sea, and told him never to return till 
he could come back improved in character. To 
protect his remaining children, it was necessary for 
him to send the dissolute one awny. 

Now, was this father cruel, in thus endeavoring 
to promote the peace and the happiness of his fami- 
ly ? Was it unkind in him to resolve to make his 
virtuous children happv, by excluding the vicious 
and the degraded ? No! Every one sees that this 
is the dictate of paternal love. If he had been a cruel 
father — if he had had no regard for his children, he 
would have allowed this abandoned son to have re- 
mained, and conducted as he pleased. He would 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 109 

have made no effort to protect his children, and to 
promote their joy. 

And is it not kind in our heavenly Father to re- 
solve that those who will not obey his laws shall 
be for ever excluded from heaven? He loves his 
virtuous and obedient children, and will make them 
perfectly happy. He never will permit the wicked 
to mar their joys and degrade their home. If God 
were an unkind being, he would let the wicked go 
to heaven. He would have no prison to detain them. 
He would leave the good unprotected and exposed 
to abase from the bad.. But God is love. He never 
thus will abandon his children. Fie has provided a 
strong prison, with dungeons deep and dark, where 
he will hold the wicked, so that they cannot escape. 
The angels in heaven have nothing to fear from 
wicked men, or wicked angels. God will protect 
his children from all harm. 

Our Father in heaven is now inviting all of us to 
repent of our sins, and to cultivate a taste for the 
joys of heaven. He wishes to take us to his own 
happy home, and make us loved members of his own 
affectionate family. And every angel in heaven re- 
joices, when he sees the humblest child repent of sin 
and turn to God. But if we will not be obedient to 
his laws : if we will not cultivate in our hearts those 
feelings of fervent love which glow and burn in the 
angel's bosom ; if we will not here on earth learn 
the language of prayer and praise, God assures us 

Child at Homo. * n 



1 10 ti; ; CHILI at ROM 

that tot never cat) be admitted to mingle with his 

happy fun; ;, i very un- 

kind to allow the wicked and impenitent to enter in 
and mar their joys? The angels iwr happy to wel- 
come a returning wanderer. But if they shou!<: 
an unsubdued spirit directing* his Bight towards hea- 
ven, they all would pray to God tint be might not 
be permitted to enter, to throw discord : 
songs, and sorrow into their hearts. love. 

lie will keep heaven pure and happy. All who will 
be obedient to him, he will gladly elevate to walk 
the streets of the New Jerusalem, and to inhabit the 
mansions which he has built. 

But those who will not submit to his authority 
must be shut out for ever. If we do not yield to the 
warnings and entreaties which now come to us from 
God, we must hear the sentence, " Depart from me," 
— "I know you net." God uses all the means 
which he deems pr j er to reclaim us : and when 
he finds that we are incorrigible, then does he close 
upon us tt i d rs of our prison, that we never 
mav escape. 

If God I for the happiness of his children, 

lie would break these laws; he would tear down 
tin's prison ; he would turn all its guilty inmates 

2 upon the universe, to rove and to desola 
thnr pleasure. But, blessed be ie is love: and 

t lie bright net lory of heaven never can be 

marred bv the entrance of sin. In hell's dreary 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 11! 

abyss, the wretched outcasts from heaven will firm 
their secure and eternal abiding place. Where do 
you wish to have your home'? with the virtuous 
and happy in heaven, or with the vicious and mis- 
erable in the world of wo % Now is the time to de- 
cide. But life will soon be gone. As we die, we 
shall continue for ever. 

" There are no acts of pardon passed 
In the cold grave to which we haste." 

God, in this w r orld, makes use of all those means 
which he thinks calculated to affect your feelings 
and to incline you to his service. You now hear of 
the love of Jesus, and feel the strivings of the Holy 
Spirit. You are surrounded by many who love the 
Savior, and enjoy all the precious privileges of the 
Bible and the Sabbath. God speaks to you in af- 
flictions and enjoyments, and tries ways without 
number to reclaim you to himself. If you can resist 
all this, your case is hopeless. In the world of wo 
there will be no one to plead with you the wonders 
of a Savior's love. You will feel no strivings of the 
Spirit. No Christian friends will surround you 
with their sympathies and their prayers. The Sab- 
bath will no longer dawn upon you, and the Bible 
will no longer entreat you to turn to the Lord. It 
you can resist all the motives to repentance which 
this life affords, you are proof against all the means 
which God sees fit to adopt. If you die impenitent, 



1 12 TUT. CHILD AT HOME. 

you will for i at, and go on un- 

restrained in passion and wo. The word of ( 
baa declared that, at the day of judgment our doom 

will be fixed for ever. The wicked shall then go 
into everlasting punishment, and the righteous to 

life eternal. The bars of the sinner's prison will 
never be broken. The glories of the saint's abode 
will never be sullied. 

A few years since, a child was lost in the woods. 
He was out, with his brothers and athering 

berries, and accidentally was separated from them 
and lost. The children, after looking in vain for 
some time in search of the little wanderer, returned 
just in the dusk of the evening, to inform their pa- 
rents that their brother was lost, and could not be 
found. The woods at that time were infested with 
bears. The darkness of a cloudy night was rapid In- 
coming on, and the alarmed father, gathering a few 
of his neighbors, hastened in search of the lost child. 
The mother remained at home, almost distracted 
with suspense. As the clouds gathered and the dark- 
ness increased, the father and the neighbors, with 
highly-excited fears, traversed the woods in all di- 
rections, and raised loud shouts to attract the atten- 
tion of the child. But their search was in vain 
They could find no traces of the wanderer ; and as 
they stood under the bomrhs of the lofty trees, and 
listened, that if possible they might hear his feeble 
voice, no sound was borne to their ears but the me- 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 113 

lancholy moaning of the wind as it swept through 
the thick branches of the forest. The gathering- 
clouds threatened an approaching storm, and the 
deep darkness of the night had already enveloped 
them. It is difficult to conceive what were the feel- 
ings of that father. And who could imagine how 
deep the agony which filled the bosom of that mo- 
ther as she heard the wind, and beheld the darkness 
in which her child was wandering! The search 
continued in vain till nine o'clock in the evening. 
Then one of the party was sent back to the village 
to collect the inhabitants for a more extensive search. 
The bell rung the alarm, and the cry of fire re- 
sounded through the streets. It was, however, as- 
certained that it was not fire which caused the alarm, 
but that the bell tolled the more solemn tidings of a 
lost child. Every heart sympathized in the sorrows 
of the distracted parents. Soon the multitudes of the 
people were seen ascending the hill upon the decli- 
vity of which the village was situated, to aid in the 
search. Ere knag the rain began to fall, but no tid- 
ings came back to the village of the lost child. 
Hardly an eye was that night closed in sleep, and 
there was not a mother who did not feel for the ago- 
nized parents. The night passed away, and the 
morning dawned, and yet no tidings came. At last 
those engaged in the search met together and held 
a consultation. They made arrangements for a 
more minute and extended search, and agreed that 
10* 



114 Tin: child at ROM I 

in case the child was found, a gun should he fired 
to give ;i signal to the the party. As the sun 

arose, the clouds wore dispelled, and the whole 
landscape glittered id the mys of the bright morn- 
ing. But that village was deserted and still. The 
stores wore closed, and busitt 8 bush< d. Mo- 

thers were walking the streets frith sympathising 
countenances and anxious hearts. There was but 
one thought there — What lias become of the lost 
child? All the affections and interest ofthe commu- 
nity were flowing in one deep and broad channel 
towards the little wanderer. About nine in the 
morning the signal gun was fired, which announc- 
ed that the child was found; and for a moment 
how dreadful was the suspense! Was it found a 
mangled corpse, or was it alive and well ! Soon a 
joyful shout proclaimed the safety of the child. 
The shout was borne from tongue to tongue, till the 
whole forest rung again with the joyful acclamations 
of the multitude. A commissioned messenger ra- 
pidly bore the tidings to the distracted mother. A 
procession was immediately formed by those engag- 
ed in the search. The child was placed upon a plat- 
form, hastily constructed from the boughs of trees, 
and borne in triumph at the head of the procession. 
When they arrived at the brow of the hill, they 
rested for a moment, and proclaimed their success 
with three loud and animated cheers. The proces- 
sion then moved on, till they arrived in front of th« 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH 115 

dwelling where the parents of the child resided. 
The mother, who stood at the door, with streaming" 
eyes and throbbing heart, could no longer restrain 
herself or her feelings. She rushed into the street, 
clasped her child to her bosom, and wept aloud. 
Every eye was suffused with tears, and for a mo- 
ment all were silent. But suddenly some one gave 
a signal for a shout. One loud, and long, and hap- 
py note of joy rose from the assembled multitude, 
and they then dispersed to their business and their 
homes. 

There was more joy over the one child that was 
found than over the ninety and nine that went not 
astray. Likewise there is joy in the presence of the 
angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. But 
still this is a feeble representation of the love of our 
Father in heaven for us, and of the joy with which 
the angels welcome the returning wanderer. The 
mother cannot feel for her child that is lost as God 
feels for the unhappy wanderers in the paths of sin. 
The child was exposed to a few hours of suffering ; 
the sinner to eternal despair. The child was in dan- 
ger of being torn by the claws and the teeth of the 
bear — a pang which would be but for a moment ; 
but the sinner must feel the ravages of the never- 
dying worm, must be exposed to the fury of the in- 
extinguishable flame. Oh, if a mother can feel so 
much, what must be the feelings of our Father in 
heaven ! If man can feel so deep a sympathy, what 



I IG Tin: CHILD AT HOME. 

low ill the bosoms of 
angels I Such is the nature of the feelings with 
which we we regarded by our heai I 'atherand 

the holy angels. 

Many parables are introduced in the Bible to il- 
lustrate this feeling on the part of God. He com- 
pares himself with the kind shepherd, who, finding 
that one little lamb had strayed from the dock, left 
the ninety and nine and went in search of the lost 
one. He illustrates this feeling by that of the wo- 
man who had lost a piece of silver, and immediate- 
ly lit a candle and swept the house diligently, till 
she found it. In like manner, we are informed, that 
it is not the will of our Father who is in heaven, that 
one of his little ones should perish. He has mani- 
fested the most astonishing love and kindness that lie 
might make us happy. 

But what greater proof of love can we have than 
that which God has given in the gift of his Son ! 
That you might be saved from sin and - wo, 

Jesus came and died. He came to the world, and 
placed himself in poverty, and was overwhelmed 
with sorrow, that he might induce you to accept sal- 
vation, and to be happy for ever in heaven. The 
Savior was born in a stable. When an infant, his 
life was sought. His parents were compelled to flee 
out of the country, that they might save him from a 
violent death. As he grew up, lie was friendless 
and forsaken. He went about from town to town. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 117 

and from village to village, doing good to all. He 
visited the sick, and healed them. He went to the 
poor and the afflicted, and comforted them. He took 
little children in his arms, and blessed them. He 
injured no one, and endeavored to do good to all. 
And yet he was persecuted, and insulted, and abused. 
Again and again he was compelled to flee for his 
life. They took up stones to stone him. They 
hired false witnesses to accuse him. At last they 
took him by night, as he was in a garden praying. 
A cruel multitude came and took him by force, and 
carried him into a large hall. They then surrounded 
our blessed Savior, and heaped upon him all man- 
ner of insult and abuse. They mocked him . They col- 
lected some thorns, and made a crown, which they 
forced upon his head, pressing the sharp thorns into 
his flesh, till the blood flowed dow r n upon his hair and 
his cheeks. And after thus passing the w T hole night, 
he was led out to the hill of Calvary, tottering be- 
neath the heavy burden of the cross, which he was 
compelled to bear upon his own shoulders, and to 
which he was to be nailed. When they arrived at 
the place of crucifixion, they drove the nails through 
his hands and his feet. The cross was then fixed in 
the ground, and the Savior, thus cruelly suspended, 
was exposed to the loud and contemptuous shouts ol 
an insulting mob. The morning air was filled with 
their loud execrations. A soldier came and thrust a 
spear deep into his side. To quench his burning 



I 18 Tin: ( mi. i) at BO ' 

thirst, th< • hiin rinegar, mixed with 

Thus did our Savior die. ] 

the 

And wlini he, while endiu toss, 

cried out, u My G 

Icfen me .'" ; he w 

which you must otherwise If 

not been for our Savior's sorrows and death, there 

would have been no help for i 

ver could have entered b< r. ■ q. You must for 

have endured the penalty of that law which saith, 
"The soul that sinneth, it shall die." \V 
ever such love as this? And, oh, must not 
child's heart be hard, who will not love such a Si- 
vior, and who will not do all in his power Id j . 
his gratitude by a holy and an obedient life 
so loves you, that he was willing to die I 
cruel of deaths, that he might make you 
He is now in heaven, preparing mansions 
for all those who will accept him .vior, 

and obey his law. And where is the child who 
does not wish to have this Savior E end, Bud 

to have a home in heaven ? 

The Holy Spirit is promised to aid you in all 
your efforts to resist sin. If, wi. 
temptation is strong, you will look to him for aid. 
he will give you Thus is duty 

made easy. God loves you. Angels desire that 
should come to heaven. Jesus has died to save . 



PIETY. 119 

The Holy Spirit is ready to aid you in every Chris- 
tian effort, and to lead you on, victorious over sin 
How unreasonable, then, and how ungrateful it is, 
for any child to refuse to love God, and to prepare 
to enter the angels' home ! There you can be happy. 
No night is there. No sickness or sorrow can ever 
reach you there. Glory will fill your eye. Joy will 
fill your heart. You will be an angel yourself, and 
shine in all the purity and in all the bliss of the 
angels' happy home. 



CHAPTER VI. 

PIETY. 

In the last chapter I have endeavored to show 
you in what your sin principally consists ; and also 
the interest which God feels in your happiness, and 
the sacrifice he has made to lead you to penitence 
and to heaven. But } 7 ou desire more particular in- 
formation respecting the duties which God requires 
of you. I shall in this chapter explain the require- 
ments of God; and show you why you should im^ 
mediately commence a life of piety. 

Probably no child reads this book who is not con- 



120 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

scious of sin. You feel not only that you do not lov* 
God as you ought, but ti. timet you are in;* 

grateful or disobedient to your | you are iiri- 

tated with your brother or yen: r you indulge 

in other feelings, which you know to be wrong. 
Now, the first thing which <"»od requires of yon is, 
that you should be penitent for all your sins. At 
the close of the day, you go to y r for 

sleep. Perhaps your mother . and 

hears \ r ou repeat a prayer of gratitu . d for 

his kindness. But after she has left the char 
and you are alone in the darkness, you recall to mind 
the events of the day, asking yourself what you have 
done that is wrong. Perhaps you were idle at school, 
or unkind to a playmate, or disobedient to your pa- 
rents. Now, if you go to sleep without sincere re- 
pentance, and a firm resolution to try for the future 
to avoid such sin, the frown of your Maker will be 
upon you during all the hours u. ht You 

ought, every evening, before you go to sleep, to think 
Qf your conduct during the day, and to express to 
God your sincere sorrow for i 

done which is displeasing to him, and humbly im- 
plore the pardon of your sins tl is Christ. 
Such a child God lovi a one lie will re; 
forgive. And if it is his will u should 
before the morning, he will take you to heaven, to 
be happy there Butr rthat it is noteno 
simply to fay thai you arc penitent You rau 



PIETY. 121 

feel penitent. And yon must resolve to be more 
watchful in future, and to guard against the sin over 
which you mourn. You have, for instance, spoken 
unkindly, during the day, to your brother. At night, 
you feel that you have done wrong, and that God is 
displeased. Now, if you are sincerely penitent, and 
ask God's forgiveness, you will pray that you may 
not again be guilty of the same fault. And when 
you awake in the morning, you will be watchful 
over yourself, that you may be pleasant and obliging. 
You will perhaps go to your brother, and say, " I 
did wrong in speaking unkindly to you yesterday, 
and I am sorry for it. I will endeavor never again 
to do so." At any rate, if you are really penitent, 
you will pray to God for forgiveness, and most sin- 
cerely resolve never willingly to be guilty of the 
same sin again. 

But you must also remember that, by the law of 
God, sin can never pass unpunished. God has said, 
" The soul that sinneth, it shall die." And when 
you do any thing that is wrong, and afterwards re- 
pent of it, God forgives you, because the Savior has 
borne the punishment which you deserve. This is 
what is meant by that passage of Scripture, " he was 
wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our 
iniquities." Our Father in heaven loved us so much 
that he gave his own Son to die in our stead. And 
now he says that he is ready to forgive, if we will 
repent, and believe in his Son who has suffered and 

Child at Home. i i 



12 2 THE CHILD AT no'in 

us. And ought we not to I i ind a 

You cannot expect at present precisely and fully 
to understand every thin with the 

ferings and death of Christ, and the moral i 
they produce. In feet, it is intimated in the Bible, 
that even the angels in heaven find this Bubject 
capable of tasking all their powers. Yon can an 
stand, however, that he Buffered and died, that 
might be forgiven. It would net I i 
vernuieut to forgive sin merely on tb e of 

the sinner. Civil government cannot do thi 
a famil] government cannot do it safely. It is i 
the case, when a man is condemned to death for a 
crime he has committed, that his dearest Ire 
sometimes his wife and children, make the raoai 
affecting appeals to the chief magistrate of the b) 

rant him pardon. But it will not do. 
vernor, if he knows his duty, will he firm, 
painful it may be, in allowing the law to take its 
course; for he has to consider not merely the wu 
of the unhappy criminal and his friends, but the 
safety and happiness of the whole co*nmuni f y. 
And so the governor of the lUSt con- 

r, not merely his own bei lings to- 

wards the sinner, hut the safety and the holiness of 
all his cr< and he could i. 

our sins, unles h wo 

irgiven. This w 



PIETY. 123 

to sustain law and protect holiness, and yet to let us 
go free from the punishment due to our sins. Jesus 
died for us. He bore our sins. By his stripes we 
are healed. And shall we not be grateful? 

It is thus that God has provided a way for our 
escape from the penalty of his law. You have read, 
" God so loved the world, that he gave his only- 
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should 
not perish, but have everlasting life." Was it not 
kind in God to give his Son to suffer, that we might 
be saved from punishment? God has plainly given 
his law. And he has said, the soul that sinneth, it 
shall die. And he has said, that his word is so sa- 
cred, that, though heaven and earth should pass 
away, his word shall not pass away. We have all 
broken God's law, and deserve the punishment it 
threatens. But our indulgent Father in heaven is 
looking upon us in loving kindness and in tender 
mercy. He pities us, and he has given his own Son 
to bear the punishment which we deserve. Oh, was 
there ever proof of greater love ? 

And how ardently should we love that Savior, 
who is nearer and dearer than a brother, who has 
left heaven and all its joys, and come to the world, 
and suffered and died, that we might be happy ! 
God expects that we shall love him ; that we shall 
receive him as our Savior, and whenever we do 
wrong, that we shall ask forgiveness for his sake. 
And when a child thinks of the sorrows w T hich his 



124 Till: CHILD AT HO.MK. 

tins bare caused the Savior, it does appear to me 

that he must love that Savior with the most ardent 
affection. 

It was the law of a certain town that the boys 
should not slide down hill in the streets.* If any 
were found doing so, they were to be lined, and if 
the money was not paid, they were to be sent to jail 
Now, a certain boy, the son of a poor man, broke 
the law, and was taken up by an officer. They car- 
ried him into court, the fact was fully proved against 
him, and he was sentenced to pay the fine. Be had 
no money, and his father, who stood by, was poor, 
and found it hard work to supply the wants of the 
family. The money must be paid, however, or the 
poor boy must go to jail. The father thought that 
lie could earn it in the evenings, and he promised, 
accordingly, to pay the money if they would let his 
son go. 

Evening after evening, then, he went out to his 
work, while the boy was allowed to remain by the 
comfortable fire, at home. After a while the money 
was earned and paid, and then the boy felt relieved 
and free. 

* To those children who live where it seldom or never 
snows,, I ought to say in this note, that, in New-England, it 
is a very common amusement to slide down the hills on 
sh'ds pr boards, in the winter when the roads are 

icy and smooth. In some places this is dangerous to [ms- 
ind then i: is forbidden by law. 



PIETY. 125 

Now, suppose this boy, instead of being grateful 
to the father, who had suffered for him, should treat 
him with coldness and unkindness. Suppose he 
should continually do things to give him pain, and 
always be reluctant to do the slightest thing to oblige 
him. Who would not despise so ungrateful a boy ? 

And do you think that that child who will grieve 
the Savior with continued sin, who will not love 
him, who will not try to obey him, can have one 
spark of noble, of generous feeling in his bosom ? 
Would any person, of real magnanimity, disregard 
a friend who had done so much as the Savior has 
done for us ? God requires of us, that while we feel 
penitent for our sins, we should feel grateful to that 
Savior who has redeemed us by his blood. And 
when Jesus Christ says, "Come unto me, all ye that 
labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest," 
this is what he means. We must love Christ. We 
must regard him as the friend who has, by his own 
sufferings, saved us from the penalty of God's law. 
And it is dishonorable and base to refuse to love 
him, and to do every thing in your power to please 
him. 

This kind Savior is now looking upon you with 
affection. He has gone to heaven to prepare a place 
for you, and there he wishes to receive you, and to 
make you happy for ever. His eye is upon your 
heart every day, and every hour. He never forgets 
you. Wherever you go, he follows you. He shields 
11* 



126 THI CHILD AT HO ML. 

you from harm. He supplies all your wants. He 
surrounds you with blessinga And now, all that 
lie asks for all these favorfl is vour love: not that 
yon may do good to him, hut that be may do still 
more good to you. He wishes to take yon, holy 
and happy, to the green pastures and the still wa- 
ters of heaven. Can any child refuse to love this 
Savior ? Oh, go to him at once, and pray that he 
will receive you, and write your name among the 
number of his friends. Then will he soon receive 
you to his own blissful abode. 

u Fair distant land i could mortal eyes 
But half its charms explore, 
How would our spirits long to rise, 
And dwell on earth no more ! 

No cloud those distant regions know, 

Realms ever bright and lair ! 
For sin, the source of mortal \\\>, 

Can never enter there." 

Every child who reads this book probably knows, 
that, unless he is penitent for sin, and trusts in the 
Savior, he must for ever be banished from the pre- 
sence of God. But a person cannot be penitent and 
grateful who does not endeavor in all things to be 
obedient. You must try at all times of the day, and 
in all the duties of the day, to be faithful, that you 
may please God. It is not a little thing to be a 



PIETY. 127 

Christian. It is not enough that you at times pray 
earnestly and feel deeply. You must be mild, and 
forbearing, and affectionate, and obedient. Do you 
think that child can be a Christian, who will, by 
ingratitude, make his parents unhappy ? There is, 
perhaps, nothing which is more pleasing to God 
than to see a child who is affectionate and obedient 
to his parents. This is one of the most important 
Christian duties. And if ever you see a child who 
professes to be a Christian child, and who yet is 
guilty of ingratitude and of disobedience, you may 
be assured that those professions are insincere. If 
you would have a home in heaven, you must be 
obedient while in your home on earth. If you 
would have the favor and the affection of your hea- 
venly Father, you must merit the affection and the 
gratitude of your earthly parents. God has most 
explicitly commanded that you should honor your 
father and your mother. If you sin in this respect, 
it is positive proof that the displeasure of God rests 
upon you. 

Sincere love to God will make a child not only 
more amiable in general character, but also more 
industrious. You are, perhaps, "at school, and, not 
feeling very much like study, idle away the after- 
noon. Now, God's eye is upon you all the time. 
He sees every moment which is wasted. And the 
sin of that idle afternoon you must render an ac- 
count for, at his bar. Do you suppose that a person 



123 Tin: CHILD at BOMB. 

can be «'i Christian, and yel be neglecting time, and 
living in idleness? Even foi every idle word that 
men shall s|.eak they must give so account in the 
day of judgment If yon do not impn time 

when young, you can neither be ui r respect- 

ed, nor happy. The consequences of this idleness 
will follow you through life. With all mh ( tod has 
connected sorrow. The following account of ( i<>orge 
Jones will show how intimately God has connected 
with indolence sorrow and di- 



THE CONSEQUENCES OF IDLENESS. 

Many young persons seem to think it is not of 
much consequence if they do not improve their time 
well when in youth, for they can make it up by dili- 
gence when they are older. They think it is dis- 
graceful for mr,i and women to be idle, but that there 
can be no harm for persons who are young to spend 
their time in any manner they plea 

George Jones thought so. He was twelve years 
old. He went to an academy to prepare to enter 
college. II is father was at great expense in obtain- 
ing books for him, clothing him, and paying his tui- 
tion. But George was idle. The preceptor of the 
academy would often tell him that if he did not stu- 
dy diligently when young, he would never succeed 
well. But George thought of nothing but present 



PIETY. 129 

pleasure. Often would he go to school without 
having made any preparation for his morning les- 
son ; and, when called to recite with his class, he 
would stammer and make such blunders, that the 
rest of his class could not help laughing at him. 
He was one of the poorest scholars in school, be- 
cause he was one of the most idle. 

When recess came, and all the boys ran out of 
the academy, upon the play-ground, idle George 
would come moping along. Instead of studying 
diligently while in school, he was indolent and half 
asleep. When the proper time for play came, he had 
no relish for it, I recollect very well that, when 
tossing up for a game of ball, we used to choose 
every body on the play-ground before we chose 
George. And if there were enough to play with- 
out him, we used to leave him out. Thus was he 
unhappy in school and out of school. There is no- 
thing which makes a person enjoy play so well as 
to study hard. When recess was over, and the rest 
of the boys returned fresh and vigorous to their stu- 
dies, George might be seen lagging and moping 
along to his seat. Sometimes he would be asleep 
in school, sometimes he would pass his time in 
catching flies and penning them up in little holes, 
which he cut in his seat. And sometimes, when 
the preceptor's back was turned, he would throw a 
paper ball across the room. When the class w r as 
called up to recite, George would come drowsily 



130 Tin: child at home. 

along, looking as mean and ashamed ns though he 
were going to be whipped. The rest of the c 

stepped ii]) to the recitation with alacrity, and ap- 
peared happy and contented. When it came < 

turn to recite, he would he so long, and make such 
blunders, that all most heartily wished him out of 
the class. 

At last George went with his class to enter col- 
lege. Though he passed a very | mination, 
he was admitted with the rest, for thoso who rxam- 
ined him thought it was possible, that th 
why he did not answer the questions better was that 
he was frightened. ■ Now came hard times for poor 
George. In college there is not much mercy shown 
to bad scholars: and George had neglected his stu- 
dies so long that he could not now keep up with his 
class, let him try ever so hard. 

lie could without much difficulty get along in 
the academy, where there were only two or three 
boys of his own class to faugh at him. But now he 
had to go into a large recitation room, filled with 
students from all parts of the country. In the pre- 
sence of all these he must rise and recite to the pro- 
fessor. Poor fellow ! lie paid dear for his idleness. 
You would have pitied him, if you could have §660 
him trembling in his sent, every moment expecting 
to be called upon to recite. And when he was call- 
rd upon, he would Stand up and take what the class 
called a dead set ; that is, lie could not recite at all. 



PIETY. lcl 

Sometimes he would make such ludicrous blunders, 
that the whole class would burst into a laugh. Such 
are the applauses idleness gets. He was wretched, 
of course. He had been idle so long, that he hardly 
knew how to apply his mind to study. All the 
good scholars avoided him ; they were ashamed to 
be seen in his company. He became discouraged, 
and gradually grew dissipated. 

The government of the college soon were com- 
pelled to suspend him. He returned in a few 
months, but did no better; and his father was then 
advised to take him from college. He left college, 
despised by every one. A few months ago I met 
him in New- York, a poor wanderer, without money 
or friends. Such are the wages of idleness. I hope 
every reader will from this history take warning, 
and "stamp improvement on the wings of time." 

This story of George Jones, which is a true one, 
shows how sinful and ruinous it is to be idle. 
Every child who would be a Christian, and have 
a home in heaven, must guard against this sin. 
But as I have given you one story, which shows 
the sad effects of indolence, I will now present you 
with another, more pleasing, which shows the re- 
wards of industry. 



132 THE CHILD AT HOME. 



THE ADVANTAGES OF INDUSTRY. 

I gave you the history of George Jones, an idle 
hoy. and showed you the consequences of his idle- 
ness. I shall now give you the history of Charles 
Bui lard, a class-mate of George. Charles was 
about of the same age with George, and did not 
possess naturally superior talents. Indeed, 1 doubt 
whether he was equal to him, in natural powers of 
mind. But Charles was a hard student. When 
quite young, he was always careful to be diligent 
in school. Sometimes, when there was a very hard 
lesson, instead of going out in the recess to play, 
he would stay in to study. He had resolved that 
his first object should be to get his lesson well, and 
then he could play with a good conscience. He 
loved play as well as any body, and was one of the 
best players on the ground ; I hardly ever saw any 
body catch a ball better than he could. When play- 
ing any game every one was glad to get Charles on 
his side. I have said that Charles would some- 
times stay in at recess. This, however, was very 
seldom ; it was only when the lesson was very hard 
indeed. Generally he was among the first upon the 
play-ground, and he was also among the first to go 
into school, when called in. Hard study gave him 
a relish for play, and play again gave him a relish 
for hard Study ; ^° he was happy both in school and 



PIETY. 133 

out. The preceptor could not help liking- him, for 
he always had his lessons well committed, and ne- 
ver gave him any trouble. 

When he went to enter college, the preceptor 
gave him a good recommendation. He was able to 
answer all the questions which were put to him 
when he was examined. He had studied so well 
when he was in the academy, and was so thorough- 
ly prepared for college, that he found it very easy 
to keep up with his class, and had much time for 
reading interesting books. But he would always 
first get his lesson well, before he did any thing 
else, and would review it just before recitation. 
When called upon to recite, he rose tranquil and 
happy, and very seldom made any mistake. The 
government of the college had a high opinion of 
him, and he was respected by all the students. 

There was in the college a society made up of 
all of the best scholars. Charles was chosen a mem- 
ber of that society. It was the custom to choose 
some one of the society to deliver a public address 
every year. This honor was conferred on Charles ; 
and he had studied so diligently, and read so much, 
that he delivered an address, which was very inte- 
resting to all who heard it. At last he graduated, 
as it is called ; that is, he finished his collegiate 
course, and received his degree. It was known by 
all that he was a good scholar, and by all he was 
respected. His father and mother, brothers and sis- 

Child at Home. { O 



134 THF CHfLD AT HOME. 

tera, came, commencement day, to heai him speaks 
They all fell gratifii d, and loved Char • than 

ever. .Many situations ofu I profit were 

opened to him, for ( Iharlea ivaa now a nan, intelli- 
gent, and universally r i a oseful 
and a happy man. He has a cheerful ad is 

;nt (1 l)\ r all who know him. 

Such arc the rewards of industry. 1 tn£e 

is it, that any persons should he willing to li\ 
idleness, when it will certainly make them unhap- 
py! The idle hoy is almost invariably poor 

miserable : the industrious boy is happy and pros- 
pered. 

But perhaps some child who reads this, asks, 
u Does God notice little children in school ? : ' lie 
certainly does> And if you are not diligent in the 
improvement of your time, it is one of the 8U1 
of evidences that your heart is not right with I 
You are placed in this world I air time. 

In youth you must be preparing for future useful- 
ness. And if you do not improve the advantages 
you enjoy, you sin against your Maker. 

" With books, or work, or healthfa] play, 
L : your first yean be past, 
That you may i very day, 

\ aCCOUtft at : 

One of the petitions in \\ 9 praver is, "for- 

pive aa our i ^r^wc o We 



PIETY. 135 

do thus pray that God will exercise the same kind 
of forgiveness towards us, which we exercise to- 
wards others. Consequently, if we are unforgiving 
or revengeful, we pray that God will treat us in the 
same way when we appear before him in judgment. 
Thus God teaches the necessity of cultivating a for- 
bearing and a forgiving spirit. We must do this or 
we cannot be Christians. When I was a boy, there 
was another little boy who went to the same school 
with me, who was a professed Christian. He seem- 
ed to love the Savior, and to try in all things to ab- 
stain from sin. Some of the bad boys were in the 
habit of ridiculing him, and of doing every thing 
they cculd to tease him, because he would not join 
with them in mischief. Near the school-house there 
was a small orchard; and the scholars would, with- 
out the leave of the owner, take the apples. One 
day a party of boys were going into the orchard for 
fruit, and called upon this pious boy to accompany 
them. 

" Come, Henry," said one of them to him, "let us 
go and get some apples." 

" The apples are not ours," he fearlessly replied, 
"and I do not think it right to steal." 

" You are a coward, and afraid to go," the other 
replied. 

" I am afraid," said Henry, " to do wrong, and 
you ought to be; but I am not afraid to do right." 

This wicked boy was exceedingly irritated at this 



136 Tin; child at iioml 

rebuke, and called Henry all matfner of n ra m and 

endeavored to hold him up to the n licule cl the 

whole school. 

Henry bore it very patiently, though it was hard 
to be endured, for the boy who ridiculed him had a 
great deal of influence and talent. 

Some days after this the boys were going a fall- 
ing. Henry had a beautiful fishing-rod, which his 
father had bought for him. 

George — for by that name I shall call the bov 
who abused Henry — was very desirous of borrow- 
ing this fishing-rod, and yet was ashamed to a^l, 
it. At last, however, he summoned courage, and 
called out to Henry upon the play-ground — 

44 Henry, will you lend me your rod to go a fish- 
ingV 

44 O yes," said Henry ; M if you will go home w ith 
me, I will get it for you now." 

Poor George felt ashamed enough for what he 
had done. But he went home with Henry to get 
the rod. 

They went up into the barn together, and when 
Henry had taken his fishing-tackle from the ph j ..'e 
in which he kept it, he said to George, M I have a 
new line in tin* house, which father bought me the 
other day: you may have that too, if you want i;." 
George could hardly hold up his head, he felt so 
ashamed. However, Henry went and got the new 
line, and placed it upon the rod, and gave them into 
George's hand. 



PIETY. 137 

A few days after this, George told me about it. 
"Why," said he, "I never felt so ashamed in my 
life. And one thing is certain, I will never call 
Henry names again." 

Now, who does not admire the conduct of Henry 
in this affair? This forgiving spirit is what God 
requires. The child who would be the friend of 
God, must possess this spirit. You must always be 
ready to forgive. You mast never indulge in the 
feelings of revenge. You must never desire to in- 
jure another, how much soever you may feel that 
others have injured you. The spirit of the Christian 
is a forgiving spirit. 

God also requires of his friends, that they shall 
ever be doing good, as they have opportunity. The 
Christian child will do all in his power to make 
those happy who are about him. He will disregard 
himself that he may promote the happiness of others. 
He will be obliging to all. 

This world is not your home. You are to re- 
main here but a few years, and then go to that 
home of joy or wo, which you never, never will 
leave. God expects you to be useful here. " How 
can I do any good ?" do you say ? Why, in many 
ways. You can make your parents happy ; that is 
doing good. You can make your brothers and sis- 
ters happy ; that is doing good. You can try to 
make your brothers and sisters more obedient to 
their parents ; that is doing good. You can set a 
12* 



138 rnr. child at HOME. 

good example al school ; that is doing good. If you 
see your companions doing any thing that is wn 
you can try to dissuade them. Von can speak to 
your bosom friend, upon the Savior's g . and 

endeavor to excite in his heart the feelings which 
are in yours. Thus you may be e.xerti; i I in- 

fluence upon all around you. Your life will not be 
spent in vain. God will smile upon you, and give 
joy in a dying hour. 

Some children appear to think that if they arc 
Christians, they cannot be so happy a.-s they may 
be if they are not Christians. They think that to 
love God, and to pray, and to do their duty, is gloo- 
my work. But God tells us that none can be hap- 
py but those who love him. And every one who 
has repented of sin, and loves the Savior, says that 
there is more happiness in this mode of life than in 
any other. We may indeed be happy a little while 
without piety. But misfortunes and sorrows will 
come. Your hopes of pleasure will be disappointed. 
You will be called to weep: to sutler pain : to die. 
And there is nothing but religion which can give 
you a happy life and a peaceful death. It is that 
you may be happy, not unhappy, that God wishes 
you to be a Christian. 

It is true that at times it requires a very great 
struggle to take a decided stand as a Christian. 
The proud heart is reluctant to yield. The worldly 
spirit clings to worldly pleasure. It requires bra- 



PIETY. 139 

very and resolution to meet the obstacles which will 
De thrown in your .way. You may be opposed. 
You may be ridiculed. But, notwithstanding- all 
this, the only way to ensure happiness is to love 
and serve your Maker. Many children know that 
they ought to love God, and 'wish that they had re- 
solution to do their duty. But they are afraid of 
the ridicule of their companions. Henry, who 
would not rob the orchard, was a brave boy. He 
knew that they would laugh at him. But what did 
he care 1 He meant to do his duty without being- 
frightened if others did laugh. And the conscious- 
ness of doing his duty afforded him much greater 
enjoyment than he could possibly have received from 
eating the stolen fruit. Others of the boys went and 
robbed the orchard, because they had not courage 
to refuse to do as their companions did. They 
knew it was wrong, but they were afraid of being 
laughed at. But which is the most easy to be 
borne, the ridicule of the wicked, or a condemning 
conscience, and the displeasure of God ? It is so 
with all the duties of the Christian. If you will 
conscientiously do that which God approves, ha 
will give you peace of mind, and prepare you for 
eternal joy. 

One of the most eminent and useful of the Eng- 
lish clergymen was led, when a child, by the fol- 
lowing interesting circumstance, to surrender him- 
self to the Savior. When a little bov, he was, like 



i 40 THE CHILI) AT HOME- 

other children, playful and thoughtless. He thought, 

perhaps, that he would wait until he was old, be- 
fore he became a Christian, i lis father was a piotlfl 
man, an 1 frequently conversed with him about hea- 
ven, and urged him to prepare to die. 

On the evening of his birth-day, when he was ten 
years of age, his father took him affectionately by 
the hand, and reminding him of tie through 

which he had already passed, urged him to com- 
mence that evening a life of piety. He told him of the 
love of Jesus. He told him of the danger of del 
And he showed him that he must perish for ever 
unless he speedily trusted in the Savior, and gave 
his life to his service. As this child thought of a dy- 
ing hour, and of a Savior's love, his heart was full 
of feeling, and the tears gushed into his eyes. He 
felt that it was time for him to choose whether he 
would live for God or for the world. He resolved 
that he would no longer delay. 

His father and mother then retired to their cham- 
ber to pray for their child, and this child also went 
to his chamber to pray for himself. Sincerely he 
i^ave himself to the Savior. Earnestly he implored 
forgiveness, and most fervently entreated God to aid 
him to keep his resolutions and to refrain from sin. 
And do you think that child was not happy, as, in 
the silence of his chamber, he surrendered himself 
to God? It was undoubtedly the hour of the purest 
enjoyment he ever had experienced. Angels looked 



PIETY. 141 

with joy upon that evening scene, and hovered with 
delight and love around that penitent child. The 
prayers of the parent and the child ascended as grate- 
ful incense to the throne, and were accepted. And 
from that affecting hour, this little boy went on in the 
path which leads to usefulness, and peace, and hea- 
ven. He spent his life in doing good. A short time 
since, he died a veteran soldier of the cross, and is 
now undoubtedly amid the glories of heaven, sur- 
rounded by hundreds, who have been, by his instru- 
mentality, led to those green fields and loved man- 
sions. Oh, what a rapturous meeting must that have 
been, when the parents of this child pressed forward 
from the angel throng, to welcome him, as, with tri- 
umphant wing, he entered heaven ! And, oh, how 
happy must they now be, in that home of songs and 
everlasting joy ! 

It is thus that piety promotes our enjoyment. It 
promotes our happiness at all times. It takes away 
the fear of death, and deprives every sorrow of half 
its bitterness. Death is the most gloomy thought that 
can enter the minds of -those who are not Christians. 
But the pious child can be happy even when dying. 
I was once called to see a boy who was very dan- 
gerously sick, and expected soon to die. I expected 
to have found him sorrowful. But, instead of that, a 
happy smile was on his countenance, which showed 
that joy was in his heart. He sat in bed, leaning 
upon his pillow, with a hymn book in his hand. 



142 Tin: CH1LH 4.1 no. Mr. 

which he was reading. Hit thin and 

pale, from hia long sickness, while, at the same timet 

hs appeared contented unci happy. After convers- 

ing with him a little while, I said, 

44 Do you think you shall ever get well again?' 1 

44 No, Sir," he cheerfully replied, 4l the doctor says 
I may perhaps live a lew weeks, but that he should 
not be surprised if I should die at any time. 1 ' 

44 Are you willing to die V 1 I said. 

44 yes, sir," he answered ; 44 sometimes I feel sad 
about leaving father and mother. But then I think I 
shall be free from sin in heaven, and shall be with 
the Savior. And I hope that father and mother will 
soon come to heaven, and I shall be with them then. 
I am sometimes afraid that I am too impatient to 
SO" 

44 What makes you think;' I asked, 44 that you 
are prepared to die?" 

He hesitated for a moment, and then said, 44 Be 
cause Jesus Christ has said, Whosoever conitth to 
me I will in no wise cast out. 1 do think that I 
love the Savior, and 1 wish to go to him, and to be 
made holy." 

While talking with him, 1 heard some boys laugh- 
ing and playing under the window. But this sick 
boy looked up to me, and said, t4 Oh, how much 
more happy am 1 now, than 1 used to be when well 
and out at play, not thinking of God or heaven I 
There is not a hoy in the street so happy as 1." 



PIETY. 143 

This little boy had for some time been endeavor- 
ing to do his duty as a Christian. His conduct show- 
ed that he loved the Savior. And when sickness 
came, and death was near, he was happy. But, oh, 
how sad must that child feel, who is dying in unre- 
pented sin! We all must certainly soon die, and 
there is nothing to make us happy in death but 
piety. 

But when the Christian child goes to heaven, how 
happy must he be ! He rises above the clouds, and 
the blue sky, and the twinkling stars, till he enters 
the home of God and the angels. There he be- 
comes an angel himself. God gives him a body of 
perfect beauty, and furnishes him with wings, with 
which he can fly from world to world. God is his 
approving Father. Angels are his beloved friends. 
Ycu often, in a clear evening, look up upon the 
distant stars, and wonder who inhabits them. You 
think, if you had the wings of an eagle, you would 
love to fly up there, and make a visit. Now, it is not 
improbable that the Christian, in heaven, can pass 
from star to star, as you can go from house to house 
in your own neighborhood. The very thought is 
enrapturing. If every hour of our lives were spent 
in sorrow, it would be nothing, compared with the 
joys which God has promised his friends at his right 
hand. When we think of the green pastures of 
heaven ; of the still waters of that happy world ; 
when we think of mingling with the angels in their 



141 Till: ( IIII.I) AT HOME. 

flight; of uniting our voices with theirs in tongs ol 
praise; of gazing upon all the and sharing 

all tin* rapture of the heavenly world— O, how 
tame do the joys of earth appear ! 

Some children, however, think that they can put 
off becoming- Christians till a dying hour, and then 
repent and be saved. Even if you could do this, it 
would be at the loss of much usefulness and much 
happiness. But the fact is, you are never certain of 
a moment of life. You are little aware of the dan- 
gers to which you are continually exposed. 

" The rising morning can't assure, 
That we shall spend the day ; 
For death stands ready at the door, 
To snatch our lives away." 

We are reminded of the uncertainty of life, by the 
accidents which are every day occurring. Often, 
when we least suspect it, we are in tl< 
nent hazard of our lives. When I was a boy, I one 
day went a gunning. I was to call for another boy, 
who lived at a little distance from my Cither's. Hav- 
ing loaded my gun with a heavy charge of pigeon- 
shot, and put in a new flint, which would strike out 
a brilliant shower of sparks, I carefully primed the 
gun, and set out upon my expedition. When arrived 
at the house of the boy who was to go with me, I 
leaned the gnn against the side of the house, and 
waited a few moments for him to get ready. About 



PIETY. 145 

a rod from the door, where I was waiting, there was 
another house. A little girl stood upon the window- 
seat, looking out of the window, Another boy came 
along, and, taking up the gun, not knowing that it 
was loaded and primed, took deliberate aim at the 
face of the girl, and pulled the trigger. But God, in 
mercy, caused the gun to miss fire. Had it gone off, 
the girl's face would have been blown all to pieces. 
I never can think of the danger she was in, even 
new, without trembling. The girl did not see the 
boy take aim at her, and does not now know how 
narrow was her escape from death. She little sup- 
posed that, when standing in perfect health by the 
window in her own father's house, she was in dan- 
ger of dropping down dead upon the floor. We are 
all continually exposed to such dangers, and when 
we least suspect it, may be in the greatest peril. Is 
it not, then, folly to delay preparation for death? 
You may die within one hour. You may not have 
one moment of warning allowed you. 

A few years ago, a little boy was riding in the 
stage. It was a pleasant summer's day. The horses 
were trotting rapidly along by fields, and bridges, 
and orchards, and houses. The little boy stood at 
the coach window with a happy heart, and looked 
upon the green fields and pleasant dwellings ; upon 
the poultry in the farm-yards, and the cattle upon 
the hills. He had not the least idea that he should 
die that day. But w r hile he was looking out of the 

Child at Home* \ 3 



146 THE CHILD AT HO MP. 

window, the iron rim of the wheel broke, and struck 
him upon the forehead. The poor boy lay senseless 
for a few days, and then died There are a thousand 
ways by which life may be suddenly extinguished, 
and yet how seldom are they thought of by chil- 
dren I They almost always entirely forget the dan- 
ger of early death, and postpone to a future day 
making their peace with God. And how little do 
ihose who read this book think that they may die 
suddenly! Many children, when they go to bed at 
night, say the prayer, 

"Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to lie 
It* I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take." 

i used to say this prayer, when a chi ■ < 
ri.ght before I went to sleep. But 1 did not know 
then, as well as I do now, that I might die before 
the morning. Almost every children 

go to bed well, and before mornin. :d. It is, 

therefore, very dangerous to delay repentance* Love 
the Savior immediately, and prepare to die, and it 
will be of but little consequence when you die, fur 
you will go to heaven and be happy for ever. 

But we must not forget that a most terrible doom 
awaits those who will not serve their Maker. It 
matters not how much we mav be beloved bv our 
friends: how amiable may be our feelings. This 



PIETY. 14? 

alone will not save us. We mast repent of sin, and 
love the Savior, who has suffered for us. We must 
pass our lives in usefulness and prayer, or, when 
the day of judgment comes, we shall hear the sen- 
tence, " Depart from me, for I know you not." It is 
indeed a fearful thing to refuse affection and obedi- 
ence to our Father in heaven. He will receive none 
into his happy family above, but those who love 
him. He will have no angry, disagreeable spirits 
there. He will receive none but the penitent, and 
the humble, and the grateful, to that pure and peace- 
ful home. Who does not wish to go to heaven ? O, 
then, now begin to do your duty, and earnestly pray 
that God will forgive your sins, and give you a heart 
to love and obey him. 



CHAPTER VII. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 

Every child must observe how much more hap- 
py and beloved some children appear to be than 
others. There are some children you always love 
to be with. They are happy themselves, and they 
make you happy. There are others whose soeie- 



MS TUK CHILD AT ROM* 

ty you always avoid. The very expression of their 
countenanced produces unpleasant feelings. They 
seem to have no friends. 

No person can be happy without friends. The 
heart is formed for love, and cannot be happy with- 
out the opportunity of giving and receiving affection. 

11 It's not in titles, nor in rank, 
It's not in wealth like London bank, 

To make us truly I 
If happiness have not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 

But never can be blest." 

But you cannot receive affection, unless you will 
also give. You cannot find others to love you, un- 
less you will also love them. Love is only to be ob- 
tained by giving love in return. Hence the impor- 
tance of cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposi- 
tion. You cannot be happy without it. 1 have some- 
times heard a girl say, 

44 I know that I am very unpopular at school." 
Now, this is simply saying that she is very diso- 
bliging and unamiable in her disposition. i( your 
companions do not love you, it is your own fault. 
They cannot help loving you if you will be kind 
and friendly. If you are not loved, it is good evi- 
dence that you do not deserve to be loved. It is true 
that a sense of duty may at times render it necessary 
for you to do that which is displeasing to your com- 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 140 

panions. But if it is seen that you have a noble 
spirit; that you are above selfishness; that you are 
willing to make sacrifices of your own personal con- 
venience to promote the happiness of your associates, 
you will never^be in want of friends. You must not 
regard it as your misfortune that others do not love 
you, but your fault. It is not beauty, it is not wealth, 
that will give you friends. Your heart must glow 
with kindness if you would attract to yourself the 
esteem and affection of those by whom you are sur 
rounded. 

You are little aware how much the happiness of 
your whole life depends upon your cultivating an 
affectionate and obliging disposition. If you will 
adopt the resolution that you will confer favors 
whenever you have an opportunit}", you will cer- 
tainly be surrounded by ardent friends. Begin upon 
this principle in childhood, and act upon it through 
life, and you will make yourself happy, and promote 
the happiness of all within your influence. 

You go to school in a cold winter morning. A 
bright fire is blazing upon the hearth, surrounded 
with boys struggling to get near it to warm them- 
selves. After you get slightly warmed, another 
schoolmate comes in suffering with the cold. 

" Here, James," you pleasantly call out to him, 
" I am 'most warm; you may have my place. 5 ' 

As you slip one side to allow him to take your 
place at the fire, will he not feel that you aie kind ? 
13* 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 

[ispositioiied boy in the world cannot 
help admiring such generosity. And even though 
be be so ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the 
favor, you may depend upon it that he will be your 
friend, as far as he is capable of friendship. If you 
will habitually act upon this principle, you will never 
want for friends. 

Suppose some day you are out with your com- 
panions playing ball. After you have be n playing 
for some time, another boy comes along. He cannot 
be chosen upon either side; for there is no o:. 
match him. 

11 Henry," you say, M you may take my place a 
little while, and I will rest." 

You throw yourself down upon the grass, while 
Henry, fresh and vigorous, takes your bat, and en- 
gages in the came. He knows that you gave up to 
accommodate him. And how can he help liking you 
for it ? The fact is, that neither man nor child can 
cultivate such a spirit of generosity and kindness, 
without attracting affection and esteem. Look and 
see who of your companions have the most friends, 
and vou will find that they are those who have this 
noble spirit; who are willing to deny themselves, 
that they may make their This is 

not peer. fldhood, but is th< in all pe- 

riods of life. There is but one way to make frit n 
and t. ing friendly to others. 

1'vj: ps some child who reads this, feels C 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 151 

scious of being disliked, and yet desires to have the 
affection of companions. You ask me what you 
shall do. I will tell you what. I will give you an 
infallible recipe. Do all in your power to make others 
happy. Be willing to make sacrifices of your own 
convenience that you may promote the happiness oj 
others. This is the way to make friends, and the only 
way. When you are playing with your brothers and 
sisters at home, be always ready to give them more 
than their share of privileges. Manifest an obliging 
disposition, and they cannot but regard you with af- 
fection. In all your intercourse with others, at home 
or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you 
will receive the rich reward of devoted friends. 

The very exercise of these feelings brings enjoy- 
ment. The benevolent man is a cheerful man. His 
family is happy. His home is the abode of the 
purest earthly joy. These feelings are worth culti- 
vating, for they bring with them their own reward 
Benevolence is the spirit of heaven. Selfishness is 
the spirit of the fiend. 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 

But persons of ardent dispositions often find it ex- 
ceedingly difficult to deny themselves. Some little 
occurrence irritates them, and they speak hastily 
and angrily. Offended with a companion, they will 
do things to give pain, instead of pleasure. You 



152 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

must have your temper wider control jf you would 
exercise a friendly disposition. A bad temper is an 
infirmity, which, if not restrained, will be conti- 
nually growing worse and worse. There was a 
man, a few years since, tried for murder. When a 
boy, he gave loose to his passions. The least oppo- 
sition would rouse his anger, and he made no efforts 
to subdue himself. He had no on 
him. If he was playing with ol . ould 

every moment be getting irritat* d. As 1 i 
his passions increased, and he became so ill-nati 
that every one avoided him. One day, as he 
talking with another man, he became so enraged at 
some little provocation, that he seized a club, and 
with one blow laid the man lifeless at his fe< t. I [c 
was seized and imprisoned. But, while in pr;~ 
the fury of a malignant and ungoverned spirit in- 
creased to such a degree that he became a maniac 
The very fires of the world of wo were bumir. 
his heart. Loaded with chains, and immured in a 
dark dungeon, he was doomed to pass the miserable 
remnant of his guilty life, the victim of his ungo- 
vernable passion. 

This is a very unusual case. But nothing is more 
common than for a child to destroy his own peace, 
an 1 to make his brothers and sisters continually 
unhappy by indulging in a peevish and irritable 
spirit. Nothing is more common than fjr a child 
to cherish this disposition until he becomes a man, 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 153 

and then, by his peevishness and fault-finding, he 
destroys the happiness of all who are near him. 
His home is the scene of discord. His family are 
made wretched. 

An amiable disposition makes its possessor happy. 
A.nd if you would have such a disposition, you 
must learn to control yourself. If others injure you, 
obey the gospel rule, and do them good in return. 
If they revile you, speak kindly to them. It is far 
better to suffer injury than to inflict injury. If you 
will endeavor in childhood in this way to control 
your passions, to be always mild, and forbearing, 
and forgiving, you will disarm opposition, and, in 
many cases, convert enemies to friends. You will 
be beloved by those around you, and when you have 
a home of your own, your cheerful and obliging 
spirit will make it a happy home. 

One thing you may be sure of. There can be 
no real happiness when there is not an amiable dis- 
position. You cnnnot more surely make yourself 
wretched, than by indulging in an irritable spirit. 
Love is the feeling which fills every angel's bosom; 
and it is the feeling which should fill every human 
heart. It is love which will raise us to the angel's 
throne. It is malice which will sink us to the de- 
mon's dungeon. I hope that every child who reads 
this, will be persuaded, by these remarks, immedi- 
ately to commence the government of his temper. 
Resolve that you never will be angry. If your pro- 



154 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

ther or your sister does any thing winch has a ten- 
dency to provoke you, restrain your feelings, and 
speak mildly and sofily. Let no provocation draw 
from you an angry or an unkind word. If you will 
commence in this way, and persevere, you will soon 
gel that control over yourself that will contribute 
greatly to your happiness. Your friends will in- 
crease, and you will be prepared for far more exten- 
sive usefulness in the world. 

And is there not something noble in being ablr 
to be always calm and pleasant ? I once saw two 
men conversing in the streets. One became very 
unreasonably enraged with the other. In the fury 
of his anger, he appeared like a madman. He 
addressed the other in language the most abusive 
and insulting. The gentleman whom he thus abus- 
ed, with a pleasant countenance and a calm voice, 
said to him, H Now, my friend, you will be sorry 
for all this when your passion is over. This lan- 
guage does me no harm, and can do you no good." 
Now is it not really magnanimous to have such 
a spirit? Every person who witnessed this inter- 
view despised the angry man, and respected the one 
who was so calm and self-possessed. 

Humility is another very important trait of cha- 
racter, which should be cultivated in early life. 
What can be more disgusting than the ridiculoua 
airs of a vain child? Sometimes you will see a fool- 
ish girl tossing her head about, and walking with 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 155 

a mincing step, which shows you at once that she 
is excessively vain. She thinks that others are ad- 
miring her ridiculous airs, when the fact is, they 
are laughing at her, and despising her. Every one 
speaks of her as a very simple, vain girl. Vanity is 
a sure sign of weakness of mind ; and if you indulge 
in so contemptible a passion, you will surely be the 
subject of ridicule and contempt. A young lady 
was once passing an afternoon at the house of a 
friend. As she, with one or two gentlemen and la- 
dies, was walking in the garden, she began to make 
a display of her fancied learning. She would look 
at a flower, and with great self-sufficiency talk of its 
botanical characteristics. She thought that the com- 
pany were all wondering at the extent of her know- 
ledge, when they were all laughing at her, as a self- 
conceited girl who had not sense enough to keep 
herself from appearing ridiculous. The gentlemen 
were winking at one another, and slyly laughing 
as she uttered one learned word after another, with 
an affected air of familiarity with scientific terms. 
During the walk, she took occasion to lug in all the 
little she knew, and at one time ventured to quote a 
little Latin for their edification. Poor simpleton ! 
She thought she had produced quite an impression 
upon their minds. And, in truth, she had. She had 
fixed indelibly the impression that she was an in- 
sufferably weak and self-conceited girl. She made 
herself the laughing-stock of the whole .company, 



156 THF. CHILD AT HOME. 

The moment she was gone, there was one general 
burst of laughter. And not one of those gentlemen 
or ladies could ever think of that vain girl after- 
wards, without emotions of contempt. 

This is the invariable effect of vanity. You can- 
not so disguise it, but that it will be detected, and 
cover you with disgrace. ' There is no foible more 
common than this, and there is none more supreme- 
ly ridiculous. 

One boy happens to have rich parents, and lie 
acts as though he supposed that there was some vir- 
tue in his fathers money which pertained to him. 
He goes to school and struts about, as though he 
were lord of the play-ground. Now. every body 
who sees this, says, it is a proof that the boy lias 
not much mind. He is a simple boy. If he had 
good cense he would perceive that others o: 
playmates, in many qualities, surpassed him. 
that it became him to be humble and unostentatious. 
The mind that is truly great is humble. 

We are all disgusted with vanity wherever it ap- 
pears. Go into a school-room, and look around up- 
on the appearance of the various pupils assembled 
there. You will perhaps see one girl, with head 
tossed upon one shoulder, and with a simpering 
countenance, trying to look pretty. You speak to 
her. Instead of receiving a plain, kind, honest an- 
swer, she rep.ies with voice and language and atti- 
tude full of affectation. She thinks she is exciting 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 157 

your admiration. But, on the contrary, she is excit- 
ing disgust and loathing. 

You see another girl, whose frank and open coun- 
tenance proclaims a sincere and honest heart. All 
her movements are natural. She manifests no de- 
sire to attract attention. The idea of her own supe- 
riority seems not to enter her mind. As, in the re- 
cess, she walks about the school-room, you can de- 
tect no airs of self-conceit. She is pleasant to all 
her associates. You ask her some question. She 
answers you with modesty and unostentation. Now, 
this girl, without any effort to attract admiration, is 
beloved and admired. Every one sees at once that 
sae is a girl of good sense. She knows too much to 
be vain. She will never want for friends. This is 
the kind of character which insures usefulness and 
happiness. 

A little girl who had rich parents, and was hand- 
some in personal appearance, was very vain of her 
beauty and of her father's wealth. She disgusted all 
her school-mates by her conceit. And though she 
seemed to think that every one ought to admire her, 
she was beloved by none. She at last left school, a 
vain, disgusting girl. A young man, who was so 
simple as to fall in love with this piece of pride and 
affectation, at length married her. For a few years, 
the property which she received of her father sup- 
ported them. But soon her father died, and her hus- 
band grew dissipated, and before long their property 

Child at Home* j 4 



153 TIIF CHILD AT HOME 

was odered. She had no friends to whom 

she could look for assistance, and they were every 

month sinking deeper and deej ••• rty. Her 

husband at last became a perfect sot, and staggered 
through the streets m the lowest state of degradation. 

She was left with one or two small children, and 
without any means of support. In a most miserable 
hovel, this poor woman was compelled to take up 
her residence. By this time : her pride had experi- 
enced a fall. She no longer exhibited the airs of a 
vain girl, but was an afflicted and helpless woman. 
The sorrow and disgrace into which she was plunged 
by the intemperance of her husband, preyed so deep- 
ly upon her feelings as to destroy her health, and in 
this condition she was carried to the poor-house. 
There she lingered out the few last years of her 
earthly existence. What a termination of life for a 
vain and haughty girl ! And what a lesson is this 
to all, to be humble and unassuming ! Y ly be 

in health to-day, and in sickness to-morrow. This 
year you may be rich, and have need of nothing, and 
the next year you may be in the most abject poverty. 
Your early home may be one of luxury and 
gance, and in your dying hour you may be in the 
poor-house, without a friend to watch at your bed- 
side. Is it not, then, the height of folly to indulge 
in vanity ! 

If any child will look around upon his own com- 
panions, he will see that tho^e are most beloved and 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 159 

respected, who have no disposition to claim superi- 
ority over their associates. How pleasant is it to be 
in company with those who are conciliating and un- 
assuming! But how much is every one disgusted 
with the presence of those who assume airs of im- 
portance, and are continually saying, by their con- 
duct, that they think themselves deserving particu- 
lar attention ! No one regrets to see such self-con- 
ceit humbled. When such persons meet with mis- 
fortune, no one appears to regret it, no one sympa- 
thizes with them. 

You must guard against this contemptible vice, it 
you would be useful, or respected, or happy. If you 
would avoid exciting disgust, avoid vanity. If you 
do not wish to be the laughing-stock of all your ac- 
quaintance, do not let them detect in you consequen- 
tial airs. If you would not be an object of hatred and 
disgust, beware how you indulge feelings of fancied 
superiority. Be plain, and sincere, and honest-heart- 
ed. Disgrace not yourself by affectation and pride. 
Let all your words and all your actions' show that 
you think no more highly of yourself than you ought 
to think. Then will others love you. They will re- 
joice at your prosperity. And they will be glad to see 
you rising in the world, in usefulness and esteem. 

Moral courage is a trait of character of the utmost 
importance to be possessed. A man was once chal- 
lenged to fight a duel. As he thought of his own 
condition, if he should kill his adversary, and*of his 



IGO THE CHILD AT HOME. 

widowed wife and orphan children, if he should be 
phot himself — as he thought of his appearance be- 
fore the bar of God to answer for the atrocious sin, 
he shrunk from accepting the challenge! But when 
he thought of the ridicule to which he would be ex- 
posed if he declined ; that others would call him a 
coward, and point at him the finger of scorn, he was 
afraid to refuse. He was such a coward that he did 
not dare to meet the ridicule of contemptible men. 
He had so little moral courage, that he had rather 
become a murderer, or expose himself to be shot, 
than boldly to disregard the opinions and the sneers 
of the unprincipled and base. It is this want of mo 
ral courage which very frequently leads persons to 
the commission of crimes. 

There is nothing so hard to be borne as ridicule. 
It requires a bold heart to be ready to do one's duty, 
unmoved by the sneers of others. How often does 
a child do that which he knows to be wrong be- 
cause he is afraid that others will call him a coward 
if he does right ! One cold winter's day, three boys 
were passing by a school-house. The oldest was a 
mischievous fellow, always in trouble himself, and 
trying to get others into trouble. The youngest, 
whose name was George, was a very amiable bov, 
who wished to do right, but was very deficient in 
moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and 
the other of the three James. The following dia- 
logue passed between thenx 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 161 

Henry. — What fun it would be to throw a snow- 
ball against the school-room door, and make the in- 
structer and scholars all jump ! 

James. — You would jump if you should. If the 
mstructer did not catch you and whip you, he would 
tell your father, and you would get a whipping then, 
that would make you jump higher than the scho- 
lars, I think. 

Henry. — Why, we could get so far of£ before the 
instructer could come to the door, that he could not 
tell who we are. Here is a snow-ball just as hard 
as ice, and George had as lief throw it against that 
door as not. 

James. — Give it to him and see. He would not 
dare to throw it against the door. 

Henry. — Do you think George is a coward? 
You don't know him as well as I do. Here, George, 
take this snow-ball, and show James that you are 
not such a coward as he thinks you to be. 

George. — I am not afraid to throw it. But I do 
not want to. I do not see that it will do any good, 
or that there will be any fun in it. . 

James.' — There, I told you he would not dare to 
throw it. 

Henry. — Why, George, are you turning cow- 
ard ? I thought you did not fear any thing. We 
shall have to call you chicken-hearted. Come, save 
your credit, and throw it. I know you are not 
afraid to. 

14* 



162 THK CHILD AT IIOMK. 

Qtorge. — Well, I am not afraid to, said George. 
Give me the snow-ball. I had as lief throw it as 
not. 

Whack went the snow-hall against the door; and 
the boys took to their heels. Henry was laughing 
as heartily as he could to think what a fool he had 
made of George. George afterward! got ■ whip- 
ping- for his folly, as he richly <!• He was 
such a coward that he was afraid of being called a 
coward. He did not dare to refuse to da M II 
told him do, for fear that he would be laughed at. 
If he had been really a brave boy, he would have 
said, 

44 Henry, do you suppose that I am such a fool u 
to throw that snow-ball just because you want to 
have me ? You may throw your own snow-balls, 
if you please." 

Henry would perhaps have tried to lau^h at him. 
He would have called him a coward, hoping in ihif 
way to induce him to obey his wishes. But Cieorge 
would have replied, 

44 Do you think that I care for your laughing 1 
I do not think it is right to throw a snon :inst 

the school-room door. And I will not do that which 
I think to be wrong, if the whole town join with 
you in laughing. : 

This would have been real moral courage. Hen- 
ry would have seen at once, that it would do no 
good to laugh at a boy who had so bold a heart. 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 163 

And you must have this fearlessness of spirit, or 
you will be continually involved in trouble, and will 
deserve and receive contempt. 

I once knew a man who had so little indepen- 
dence, that he hardly dared express an opinion dif- 
ferent from that of those he was with. When he 
was talking" upon politics, he would agree with the 
persons with whom he happened to be conversing, 
no matter what their views, or what their party. 
He was equally fickle and undecided upon the sub- 
ject of religion, differing from none, and agreeing 
with all. The consequence was, that he had the 
confidence of none, and the contempt of all. He 
sunk into merited disgrace in the estimation of the 
whole community. 

You must have an opinion of your own. And 
you must be ready, frankly and modestly, to express 
it, when occasion requires, without being intimidat- 
ed by fear of censure. You can neither command 
respect nor be useful without it. 

In things which concern your own personal con- 
venience merely, you should be as yielding as the 
air. But where duty is concerned, you should be 
as firm and as unyielding as the rock. Be ever 
ready to sacrifice your own comfort to promote the 
comfort of others. Be conciliating and obliging in 
all your feelings and actions. Show that you are 
ready to do every thing in your power to make 
those around you happy. Let no one have occasion 



164 TIIK CHILD AT HOME. 

to say that you are Stubborn and unaccommodating - . 
But, on the other hand, where duty ifl involved, 

let nothing tempt you to do wrong Be hold enough 

to dare to do right, whatever may be the conse- 
quences. If others laugh at your l . let them 
laugh as long as they please. And let them see 
that you are not to be frightened by their UK 
Your courage will often be tried. There will he 
occasions in which it will require 
to preserve your integrity. But ever remember that 
if you would do any good in the world, you must 
possess this moral courage. It is the want of this 
that leaves thousands to live in a way which their 
consciences reprove, and to die in despair. Unless 
you possess this trait of character, to some conside- 
rable degree, it can hardly be expected that you will 
ever become a Christian. You must learn to act 
for yourself, unintimidated by the censure, and ur- 
moved by the flattery of others. 

I now bring this book to a close. If you will dili- 
gently endeavor to be influenced by its directions. 
your usefulness and happiness will surely be pro 
mottd. Soon you will leave home, no more to re* 
turn but ar> a visitor. The character you have 
quired and the habits you have formed while at 
home, in all probability, will accompany you through 
life. You are now surrounded by all the joys oi 
home. Affectionate parents watch over you, supply 
ing ail your wants. You have but few solicitudes 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 165 

and but few sorrows. Soon, however, you must 
leave parents, brothers, and sisters, and enter upon 
the duties and cares of life almost alone. How af- 
fecting will be the hour, when your foot steps from 
your father's dwelling*, from your mother's care, to 
seek a new home among strangers ! You now can- 
not conceive the feelings which will press upon y r ou 
as your father takes your hand to bid you the part- 
ing farewell, and your mother endeavors to hide 
her tears, as you depart from her watchful eye, to 
meet the temptations and sorrows of life. Your 
heart will then be full. Tears will fill your eyes. 
Emotion will choke your voice. 

You will then reflect upon all the scenes of your 
childhood with feelings you never had before. 
Every unkind word you have uttered to your pa- 
rents — every unkind look you have given them, 
will cause you the sincerest sorrow. If vou have 
one particle of generous feeling remaining in your 
bosom, you will long to fall upon your knees and 
ask your parents' forgiveness for every pang you 
may have caused their hearts. The hour when you 
leave your home, and all its joys, will be such an 
hour as you never have passed before. The feelings 
which will then oppress your heart, will remain 
with you for weeks and months. You will often, in 
the pensive hour of evening, sit down and weep, as 
you think of parents and home far away. Oh, how 
cold will seem the love of others, compared with a 



\G r j thi: CHILD at home 

mother's love! How often mil your thoughts fond- 
ly return to joys which haw (of ever fled! Again 
and again will you think over t] - that are 

past Every recollection of affecti lience 

will awaken joy in your licart. Every remembrance 
of ingratitude will awaken repentance and i 

0, tlien, think of the time when you moat bid 
father and mother, brothers and sisters, fan-well 
Think of the time when you must leave the fireside 
around which you have spent so many pleasant 
evenings, and go out into the wide world, with 
other dependence than the character you have funn- 
ed at home. If this character be good, if you pos- 
amiablc and obliging and generous feelings, you 
may soon possess a home of your own, when the 
joys of your childhood will in some degn 
newed. And if you will pass your days in th« 
vice of God, imitating the character of tin 1 Savior, 
cherishing the feelings of penitence and love, which 
the Bible requires, you will soon be in that happy 
home which is never to be forsaken. There, are joys 
from which you never will be separated. There, 
are friends, angels in dignity and spotless in purity, 
in whose loved society you will find joys such as 
you never experienced while on earth. 

When a son was leaving the roof of a pious fa- 
ther, to go out into the wide world to meet its temp- 
tations, and to battle with its storms, his heart was 
oppressed with the many emotions which were strug- 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 167 

gling there. The day had come in which he was 
to leave the fireside of so many enjoyments ; the 
friends endeared to him by so many associations — 
so many acts of kindness. He was to bid adieu to his 
mother, that lov r ed, loved benefactor, who had pro- 
tected him in sickness, and rejoiced with him in 
health. He was to leave a father's protection, to go 
forth and act without an adviser, and rely upon his 
own unaided judgment. He was to bid farewell to 
brothers and sisters, no more to see them but as an 
occasional visitor at his paternal home. Oh, how 
cold and desolate did the wide world appear! How 
did he hesitate from launching forth to meet its tem- 
pests and its storms ! But the hour had come for 
him to go ; and he must suppress his emotions, and 
triumph over his reluctance. He went from room 
to room, looking, as for the last time, upon those 
scenes, to which imagination would so often recur, 
und where it would love to linger. The well-pack- 
ed trunk was in the entry, waiting the arrival of the 
stage. Brothers and sisters were moving about, 
hardly knowing whether to smile or to cry. The 
father sat at the window, humming a mournful air, 
as he was watching the approach of the stage which 
was to bear his son away to take his place far from 
home, in the busy crowd of a bustling world. The 
mother, with all the indescribable emotions of a mo- 
ther's heart, was placing in a small bundle a few lit- 
tle comforts such as none but a mother could think 



158 THE CHILD AT HOME 

of, and, with most generous resolution, endeavoring 
to preserve B cheerful countenance, that, as far as 
possible, she might preserve her son horn unneces- 
sary pain in the hour of departure. 

44 Here, my son," said she, "is a nice pair of 
stockings, which will be soft and warm for your 
feet. I have run the heels for you, fur I am afraid 
you will not find any one who will quite fill a mo 
ther's place." 

The poor boy was overflowing with emotion, 
and did not dare to trust his voice with an attei 
to reply. 

M I have put a little piece of cake here, for you 
may be hungry on the road, and I will put it in the 
top of the bundle, so that you can get it without any 
difficulty. And in this needle-book I have put up a 
few needles and some thread, for you may at tildes 
: some little stitch taken, and you will have no 
mother or sister to go to."' 

The departing son could make no reply. He 
could retain his emotion only by silence. At last 
the rumbling of the wheels of the s heard, 

the four horses were reined up at the door, 
boy endeavored, by activity, in seeing his trunk 
and other baggage properly placed, to gain suffi- 
cient fortitude to enable him to articulate his fare- 
well. He, however, strove in vain. He took his 
cr's hand. The tear ! for a moment in 

her eye, lently rolled down her ch 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 169 

He struggled with all his energy to say good by, 
but he could not. In unbroken silence he shook her 
hand, and then in silence received the adieus of 
brothers and sisters, as one after another took the 
hand of their departing companion. He then took 
the warm hand of his warm-hearted father. His fa- 
ther tried to smile, but it was the struggling smile 
of feelings which would rather have vented them- 
selves in tears. For a moment he said not a word, 
but retained the hand of his son, as he accompanied 
him out of the door to the stage. After a moment's 
silence, pressing his hand, he said, " My son, you 
are now leaving us ; you may forget your father and 
your mother, your brothers and your sisters, but, 
oh, do not forget your God!" 

The stage door closed upon the boy. The crack 
of the driver's whip was heard, and the rumbling 
wheels bore him rapidly away from all the privi- 
leges and all the happiness of his early home. His 
feelings, so long restrained, now burst out, and, sink- 
ing back upon his seat, he enveloped himself in his 
cloak, and burst into tears. 

Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Passengers 
entered and left ; but the boy (perhaps I ought ra- 
ther to call him the young man) was almost insensi- 
ble to every thing that passed. He sat, in sadness 
and in silence, in the corner of the stage, thinking 
of the loved home he had left. Memory ran back 
through all the years of his childhood, lingering 

Child at Home, 1 5 



170 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

here and there, with pain, upon an act of disobe- 
dience, and recalHng an occasional word of unkind- 
ness. All his life seemed to be passing in review 
before him, from the first years of Ins conscious 
existence, to the hour of his departure from his 
home. Then would the parting words of his father 
ring in his ears. He had always heard the morn- 
ing and evening prayer. lie bad always witnessed 
the power of religion exemplified in all the duties 
of life. And the undoubted sincerity of a Ui\: 
language, confirmed as it had been by years of cor- 
responding practice, produced an impression upon 
his mind too powerful ever to be effaced — u My son, 
you may forget father and mother, you may forget 
brothers and sisters, but, oh, do not forget your God." 
The words rung in his ears. They entered his 
heart. Again and again his thoughts ran back 
through the years he had already passed, and the 
reviving recollections brought fresh floods of t< 
But still his thoughts ran on to his fathers parting 
words, M forget not your God." 

It was midnight before the stage stopped, to give 
him a little rest. He was then more than a hundred 
miles from home. But still his father's words were 
ringing in his ears. He was conducted up several 
flights of stairs to a chamber in a crowded hotel. 
After a short prayer, he threw himself upon the bed, 
and endeavored to obtain a little sleep. But his ex 
cited imagination ran back to the hume he had left. 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 171 

Again he was seated by the fireside Again he 
heard the soothing tones of his kind mother's voice, 
and sat by his father's side. In the vagaries of his 
dream, he again went through the scene of part- 
ing, and wept in his sleep as he bade adieu to bro- 
thers and sisters, and heard a father's parting advice, 
44 Oh, my son, forget not your God." 

But little refreshment could be derived from such 
sleep. And indeed he had been less than an hour 
upon his bed, before some one knocked at the door, 
and placed a lamp in his room, saying, " It is time 
to get up, sir : the stage is almost ready to go." He 
hastily rose from his bed, and after imploring a bless- 
ing upon himself, and fervently commending to God 
his far-distant friends, now quietly sleeping in that 
happy home which he had left for ever, he hastened 
down stairs, and soon again was rapidly borne away 
by the fleet horses of the mail-coach. 

It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars shone 
brightly in the sky, and the thoughts of the lonely 
wanderer were irresistibly carried to that home be- 
yond the stars, and to that God whom his father had 
so affectingly entreated him not to forget. He suc- 
ceeded, however, in getting a few moments of trou- 
bled sleep, as the stage rolled on ; but his thoughts 
were still reverting, whether asleep or awake, to the 
home left far behind. Just as the sun was going 
down the western hills, at the close of the day, he 
alighted from the stage, in the village of strangers, in 



172 THB CHILD at home. 

which be was to find bifl nevi Not an indi- 

vidual there had ! >re. Many a pen* 

sire evening did ho pass, thinking nt friend*, 

.Many a lonely walk did ho take, while his thoughts 

were far away among the SC< hildhood. 

And when the winter evenings came, wi'i: tl 
ful blaze of the fireside, often did he think, with a 
sigh, of the loved and happy group >' r his fa- 

ther's fireside, and sharing those jo] t for 

ever. But a father's parting words did not 1- 
his mind. There they remained. And they, in con- 
nection with other events, rendered effectual by the 
Spirit of God, induced him to endeavor to consecrate 
his life to his Maker's service. In the hopes of 
again meeting beloved parents and friends in that 
home, which gilds the paradise above, he found that 
solace which could no where else be obtained, and 
was enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties 
of life, with serenity and peace. Reader, you must 
soon leave your home, and leave it f The 

privileges and the joys you are now partaking, will 
soon pass away. And when you have gone forth 
into the wide world, and feel the want of a father's 
care, and of a mother's love, then will all the scenes 
you have passed through, return freshly to your 
mind, and the remembrance of every unkind word, 
or look, or thought, will give you pain. Try, then, 
to be an affectionate and obedient child. Cultivate 
those virtues which will prepare you for usefulness 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 173 

and happiness in your maturer years, and above all, 
make it your object to prepare for that happy home 
above, where sickness can never enter, and sorrow 
can never come. 



THE BND. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Dec. 2004 

PreservationTechnologies 

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